


venom in my veins

by arysa13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood, Character Death, Exes, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Smut, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27287716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: Five years ago, Clarke’s husband was killed in a vampire attack. She’s spent every waking moment since then training as a vampire hunter so she can avenge Bellamy’s death. Only, he might not be as dead as she thought.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 76
Kudos: 329
Collections: Bellarke smut





	venom in my veins

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much to bell, meha, max, maria and arne. this fic would not have ever been finished without you guys.
> 
> happy halloween!

Clarke is drunk. Not just drunk, but absolutely, undoubtedly shit-faced. It’s how she prefers to spend the twenty-third of May. A fact which the bartender knows, and yet is still threatening to throw her out anyway for _displaying anti-social behaviour_ as Delilah had so eloquently put it.

Is it Clarke’s fault that guys still try to hit on her, even when she’s so clearly married, as evidenced by the white gold wedding band and massive diamond engagement ring on her left hand?

She’d tried doing the polite thing, at first, when guy-whose-name-she-can’t-remember rudely interrupted her flawless rendition of Nothing Compares 2 U, simply holding up her left hand to show him she’s taken. But he didn’t get the hint, and kept pestering her, so frankly he deserved the knee to the groin she’d given him.

Delilah doesn’t agree, however, and since she’s refusing to serve Clarke drinks anymore, Clarke figures she may as well leave of her own accord, rather than wait for the burly manager to come out and force her to leave.

She walks home—it’s not that far, and she can’t be bothered waiting for a taxi. Uber had yet to make its way to her neck of the woods. The downside is, she’ll probably sober up somewhat on the way, and she doesn’t want to be anything _close_ to sober tonight. But she has whiskey at home, so she’ll make up for it then.

Clarke has come to love the stillness of the dead of night. She rarely sleeps anymore, and when she’s feeling particularly restless, she’ll take the opportunity to go for a run, try to wear herself out. She never used to like exercising before, but now she likes the way it makes her body and lungs ache. She likes that she feels strong, and fast, and powerful.

Tonight though, she’s far from at her full potential. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’s aware that she’s a prime target for any potential mugger or rapist lurking in the shadows.

She stops two blocks from the bar to kick her heels off, and she wishes she’d worn sweatpants out, instead of this tight skirt. She’s not alert as she should be, walking home alone in the dark. Her head is cloudy, her movements clunky and slow. The streets are empty and quiet since she left the main street, and she’s disarmingly alone with her own thoughts.

Nausea sweeps over her and a lump rises in her throat, responses completely unrelated to the amount of alcohol in her system. She’s not thinking about it, she’s not thinking about it. She’s already cried enough today, sitting at Bellamy’s grave, telling him how much she misses him, even five years later. They should’ve had so much more time together.

She swallows down her pain, her chest aching. She fiddles with the silver charm bracelet on her wrist—his last gift to her.

She’s wrenched from her grief by the sight of a figure up ahead, standing perfectly still. Clarke’s heart races, her hand dropping from her bracelet to the wooden dagger strapped to her leg underneath her skirt. It’s designed for killing vampires, specifically, but Clarke is pretty sure it will work just as well on live men too.

Though she’s confident she could take down a lone predator that tried to attack her, she crosses the street anyway, not wanting to take her chances. When she glances over her shoulder from the other side of the road, the figure is gone. She tries to calm her nerves, convincing herself it’s a good thing the stranger has disappeared. Probably just some other insomniac like her. 

She only gets to take one more step before she’s proved wrong. A cool hand covers her mouth, and a steely arm grabs her around the waist. She doesn’t try to scream, or struggle. She can feel his fangs graze against her neck, and her blood runs cold.

“What have you been drinking?” he says, his voice slimy and mocking. “Bourbon?” Clarke doesn’t answer. She can’t. “I’m going to love getting drunk off you.”

It’s a blessing that vampires like to play with their food. Had her attacker gone straight for the kill, Clarke wouldn’t have had a chance—she’ll have to work on her reflexes—but the teasing gives her a chance to reach for her dagger. This vamp has no idea who he’s dealing with.

“Please,” Clarke begs, playing the victim. Her plea is muffled by his hand, and he moves it, circling it around her neck instead, not tightly enough to cut off her breathing, but just firm enough to try to scare her.

“What was that?” he asks.

“Please,” she chokes out. Her heart is beating rapidly, and she knows the vampire can hear it. Let him think it’s because she’s terrified. “Don’t kill me,” she says. “I’ll do anything. Take me with you—I’ll be your human slave.”

The vampire laughs. His grip on her loosens, just as Clarke fingers tighten around the hilt of her dagger. He sees her as no threat. “Is that right?” he asks.

Clarke moves. She twirls in his arms, throwing him off balance—and then she drives the wooden dagger right into his shrivelled, unbeating heart. He looks vaguely surprised for a moment, before his expression goes blank. Clarke pulls the dagger from his chest, and he drops to the ground, his body disintegrating before her eyes, until he’s nothing but blood and dust.

Clarke stands there for a moment, panting, feeling awake but empty. She’s been killing vampires for years now, and while it’s exciting in the moment, once it’s over, she feels just as dead inside as the vampire itself. It’s never going to mean anything until she finds the vampire she’s looking for—the one who stole her husband from her.

She makes the rest of the journey home feeling numb, covered in blood, almost completely sober now, despite the amount of alcohol that must still be in her system.

She locks herself in her bathroom, throwing the dagger into the sink and turning on the shower. She strips off her blood-stained clothes and throws them in the trash, then steps under the hot water, and only then does she allow herself to feel.

She sobs against the shower wall, chest heaving. It’s pointless to dwell on the past, Clarke knows that. But on her wedding anniversary, and the anniversary of her husband’s death, she can’t help but be wracked with the injustice of it all.

She doesn’t want the rush of killing a vampire. Doesn’t want to run the streets at night just so she won’t be plagued with nightmares of Bellamy dying in her arms. She just wants him here, with her, his arms around her, telling her he loves her and that he’s never going to leave her.

He _promised_ he wouldn’t leave her. And yet he’s gone, and all Clarke has is bittersweet memories and a heart full of vengeance.

-

Anya is in Clarke’s kitchen when Clarke finally manages to drag herself out of bed in the morning. Anya seems to have no qualms about invading Clarke’s space uninvited, yet Clarke knows if she did the same thing to her humourless neighbour, Anya would probably treat Clarke like she treats vamps—stake through the heart.

“What happened to you?” Anya asks. She’s obviously here for a reason, and Clarke’s appearance must be pretty bad if it caused Anya to put off getting to the point.

“Big night,” Clarke mutters. She grumbles to herself as she heads for the coffee maker. The least Anya could have done is make some for her—but that’s not really Anya’s style. She’ll tell Anya about the vampire once she’s had some caffeine.

Understanding dawns on Anya’s face. Clarke only gets that drunk once a year. “Your anniversary,” she says. Clarke doesn’t answer. She thought she’d cried all her tears last night, but already her emotions are threatening to spill out again.

God, it’s been five fucking years. Five years since she watched them lower her soulmate into the ground, only a day after his cause of death had been confirmed as an animal attack—Anya’s doing. She’s a pro at covering up vampire killings.

His sister had given the eulogy—Clarke had been too distraught to face it. And she can still barely think of him without wanting to cry. Shouldn’t she be moved on by now? When her dad died, her mom was fucking _remarried_ three years later. Clarke cried tears of guilt for hours when she tried to go on one date four years after Bellamy died. And she still can’t take off her wedding rings.

Clarke pours her coffee, and Anya’s eyes flick over Clarke’s sleepwear, lines of judgement creasing her usually expressionless face. Clarke can feel herself getting defensive already. Anya is allowed to school her on vampire hunting shit—after all, she’s the one who’s been helping Clarke train these past few years. But she doesn’t get to comment on Clarke’s personal life. It’s none of Anya’s business if Clarke still sleeps in her dead husband’s shirts.

“You should get rid of his stuff. Some of it, at least,” Anya says. Even the thought of it is gut-wrenching.

“No,” Clarke says vehemently.

“He’s not coming back, you know,” Anya says, as if she can see inside Clarke’s mind, and knows about the dreams Clarke has had, some while sleeping, some while awake, where Bellamy comes back to her, and they get to live happily ever after, like they were supposed to. “People don’t rise from the dead.”

“I know that.”

“Well, unless they’re vampires. But that’s worse than being dead.”

“I _know_.”

“Speaking of vampires,” Anya says, standing up from the stool she’d been perched on, as if finally remembering why she’s here. “I think we may have a case in our very own town.”

Normally, Clarke and Anya, and the other vampire hunters that are part of their group, will go in search of vampires, based on reports from the online vampire forum they’re part of. A lot of the reports are fake, but some are very, very real.

As far as Clarke knows, there hasn’t been any here in town since—well, since the last time, the one she’s not thinking about.

“No shit,” Clarke deadpans.

“You know?” Anya says, only vaguely surprised.

“Yeah, I killed one last night when it attacked me.”

Anya rolls her eyes. There’s no concern for Clarke’s welfare. She’s used up her quota for the day. “You should’ve cleaned up after yourself. You’re lucky I was out jogging so early. What if a civilian, or a cop, had seen the blood? You were careless.”

Clarke shrugs. She doesn’t give a fuck what might have happened. She wasn’t really in the right headspace for a cleaning session.

Anya rolls her eyes again. “There’s an empty house at the end of Fern Street. It’s been on and off the market for the last few years, after the owner died. No interested buyers. Fallen into disrepair. Seems like a good place for our vamps to set themselves up.”

“Fine, let’s go tonight.”

Anya shakes her head. “I’m going to check it out first, make sure I’m right. Then we wait for the others to get to town. I’ve already alerted the group.”

“That could be days, Anya,” Clarke groans. “We don’t know how many innocent people they could kill in that time. We need to act now.”

“We _need_ to gather more information. We don’t know how many of them there are, how old they are. Impulsiveness will only get you killed.”

Clarke shrugs. “So be it.” She’s only been half living since she lost Bellamy anyway, the only thing keeping her going is the thought of revenge. If she dies before she gets it, at least she won’t have to be without him. If there’s an afterlife, she’s sure he’s waiting for her. If there’s not, well, eternal darkness is better than this meaningless existence.

Anya glares at her. And Anya’s glares are terrifying. “Promise me you’ll wait for backup.”

Clarke sighs dramatically. “Fine,” she huffs. “I’ll wait for backup,” she concedes. But she has her fingers crossed behind her back.

-

Clarke hasn’t always been rash and impulsive. She used to be so careful, as a child, a teenager, a young adult. She was a perfectionist when it came to her art, organised and punctual to the point of her classmates’ exasperation in high school and college. Bellamy always made her a little more carefree—helped show her how to follow her heart, and not just her head.

She’d like to think it’s him she’s channelling now, as she approaches the abandoned house at the end of Fern Street. Once upon a time, she would have been on Anya’s side. Get more information, wait for backup—the sensible thing to do. But all Clarke can think about is the damage those vampires can do while they wait. She can’t bear the thought of more people in this town meeting the same fate as Bellamy.

She’s dressed more appropriately tonight, in skin tight black, a leather jacket, fingerless gloves, and lace up boots, her hair kept away from her face in a loose braid. A silver chain dangles around her neck, and she’s still got her silver charm bracelet around her wrist—silver won’t _kill_ a vampire, but she’s learnt from experience it can hurt them enough to give her a small advantage.

She’s got her wooden dagger, plus a regular boring looking stake, and a silver sword on top of that. A wooden stake to the heart is the best means of killing a vampire, but decapitation works well too, and it means she doesn’t have to get as close. Plus, the sword looks fucking cool. Yes, she’s doing this to avenge her husband, but what kind of wife would she be if she didn’t look hot doing it?

It’s dusk now—the best time to catch vampires in their abode. They’ll be waking up now, so they won’t be barricaded in their light-tight coffins, but they won’t have left to go hunting yet either. Whether they’ll be expecting her or not is a mystery—she doesn’t know if they noticed one of their friends is dead. Although _friend_ may not be the right word anyway. She’s pretty sure vampires don’t actually have friends. They run in packs out of self-preservation, not because they want the company. Vampires only have two motivators—blood and sex.

Clarke waits until she’s sure no one else is around before she approaches the house. It’s certainly seen better days—the front garden is overgrown, the windows unwashed and the paint is peeling. The front curtains are closed, and the house is dark and silent. The sun has dipped low on the horizon, minutes from disappearing completely.

Clarke reaches the front door, and tries the doorknob. It swings open, and Clarke stills. Perhaps they are waiting for her after all. Perhaps she’s walking into an ambush.

She doesn’t let the thought scare her. She came here with a mission, and she’s going to see it through. She creeps inside, unsheathing her sword with one hand, gripping her dagger in the other, on high alert. Her heart pounds so loudly, she knows the vamps must be able to hear it. They must be able to smell her too. So where are they?

No sooner has she had the thought than one of them is on her, pinning her against the wall behind her with a thump. Her reflexes are quicker than last night, and she whips the dagger from her thigh holster, managing to get it between her body and the vampire’s. She doesn’t give him time to register what’s happening before she pushes it into his chest.

He crumbles before her, and another vampire is waiting behind him. Clarke’s eyes flash with recognition, and her blood turns to ice. The dark-haired woman’s black eyes gleam, a wicked grin on her intricately scarred face. Does she recognise Clarke from that night too? If this one is here, does that mean the one that killed Bellamy is somewhere in this house as well?

She swallows thickly, trying not to let her emotions get the better of her. Now is not the time. She can grieve when this is all over.

The vampire lunges, and Clarke doesn’t hesitate. She swings her sword, cutting the woman’s head clean off. With both of them reduced to a mess of blood on the hardwood floor, and all over Clarke’s person, Clarke focuses her attention on the long hallway before her. No other vampires jump out from behind one of the many doors. Were there only two of them? Or are the others waiting for her to make the first move?

If there are others, there’s no way they don’t know she’s here—even if the scent of her human blood didn’t give her away, she wasn’t exactly quiet about killing the first two. Maybe she should hope there aren’t any more of them, but it’s been too easy so far, and her bloodlust hasn’t quite been sated yet. She wants more.

She slowly makes her way down the hallway, sword and dagger at the ready. The floorboards creak underneath her weight. She reaches the first door and kicks it open. Empty kitchen. On the other side of the hallway is an empty living room.

She kicks open the third door, half convinced by now she’s already got them all. But as soon as the door is open, he lunges for her. Clarke swings her sword, but he’s faster, and he knocks the blade to the floor, hissing as the silver burns the skin on his arm. Before she can register what’s happened, he knocks her aside, sending her crashing into the door frame as he makes his escape. Clarke doesn’t let the momentary setback deter her.

“Coward!” she screams. What kind of vampire flees, instead of fighting back?

She lunges forward, dagger in her hand, tackling him, sending him careening into the wall, where she pins him, the point of her dagger against his back. He groans—an oddly familiar sound that almost makes her falter for a moment. But she shakes it off, and he doesn’t fight her as she grabs his shoulder and forces him around to face her, her dagger immediately pressed against his heart.

“You’re right,” he says. His deep, husky voice makes her heart stop. Her breath is ripped from her lungs as she looks up at him, and the earth falls out from under her. “I am a coward,” he whispers. “So go on. Kill me.”

She can’t move. Every muscle in her body is taut, except her heart, which pounds wildly against her ribcage—harder now than when she’d been locked in battle with the other two vampires. Her eyes flick across his face, searching for the trick. Some slight difference to prove to her that it isn’t really him.

But he’s the same as the day he left her. Every freckle she memorised, the colour of his eyes, the colour of his skin, the scar on his lip, the dimple in his chin. It’s all him.

She shakes her head slowly, trying to swallow down whatever it is that’s lodged itself in her throat.

“No,” she says, her voice barely audible. Because even if it is him in the literal sense, in a more real sense, it’s not him at all. He died. This unnatural, grotesque being isn’t truly him. The dead are supposed to stay dead. She should drive the dagger through his heart and put an end to his misery. But she can’t.

“You died, I saw you die,” she whispers desperately. For someone to become a vampire, they have to have ingested vampire blood, as well as having vampire venom in their veins. And then their body needs to be buried underground for twenty-four hours. She cannot fathom how this happened.

His hand closes over hers—she’s glad of the gloves covering her wedding rings. She doesn’t need this shadow of her husband knowing she still carries a torch for him—he would use it against her. He has no loyalty to her now—his mind is that of a vampire, not a human. They don’t know loyalty, or empathy, or love.

Still, her heart skitters at his fingers brush over hers. The stupid fucking thing can’t tell the difference between this creature and the man she lost. He pulls her hand away from his chest, and Clarke lets him.

“Clarke—” he says. Her name on his lips makes her breath catch, and tears start to well in her eyes. Such a simple thing, the sound of her name. And yet it almost tears her to fucking pieces.

His mouth hangs open, like he wants to say something, but no words come. She catches a glimpse of sharp, white fangs, and she flinches. He clamps his mouth shut, something like shame, or guilt, or disappointment flashing across his face.

“What are you waiting for?” comes a voice—cold and flat and unfeeling. Clarke whips her head towards the sound—and there she is. The vampire that killed her husband—presumably turned him too. An expressionless brunette, with stringy hair and a horse-like face.

The complex emotions Clarke had been trying to make sense of before sharpen into one emotion she knows well—rage.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says again, warning this time, as if he can sense what she’s thinking. Her hand is still in his. She weighs up the likelihood of her getting to her husband’s maker before he can stop her. She doesn’t doubt that he’d kill her—his bond with his maker is stronger than any marriage vows. His grip on her hand is strong—she’s not sure she could break it without breaking her hand. But if she’s going to die, she may as well give it a shot, right?

Before she can lunge towards her nemesis, the vampire is flanked by another two. A skinny white boy wearing an unearned smirk, and a woman with a huge tattoo curling over her face. Evidently, Clarke’s search had not been as thorough as it should have been. She let her guard down, and now she’s going to pay dearly for it. In her current position, she won’t even be able to take out one of them before they drain her.

“Bellamy,” the vampire commands. She must be their leader, Clarke thinks. “If you don’t do it, I will,” she hisses.

“Echo,” Bellamy says, addressing his maker. “Not this one. Please.”

Clarke gives him a sharp look, her stomach flipping over. He’s not looking at her, his eyes focused solely on Echo.

“Pathetic,” Echo snarls.

Clarke blinks, and the next thing she knows, she’s shoved up against the wall, Bellamy being held against the opposite wall by Echo’s henchmen, Echo breathing down her neck. Her skin crawls. Echo squeezes her wrist until the dagger in her hand clatters to the floor.

“I know who you are,” Echo says, laughter in her voice. “I’m going to have so much fun killing you.”

“Then fucking do it already,” Clarke spits.

Echo laughs, and Clarke’s hand itches to curl into a fist and slam itself across Echo’s head, despite the fact Clarke knows it would do her no damage. Plus, she’d be dead before she even made contact.

“Echo,” Bellamy growls. “Let her go.” Clarke can see from the corner of her eye that he’s straining against the arms of the other two vampires, and he’s almost succeeding too. She doesn’t dwell on his begging for her life—she can’t make sense of that right now.

“I think we’ll take our time with this one. Chain her up, take turns feeding from her, while Bellamy watches the life slowly drain out of her. That can be his punishment for not killing her himself. Or maybe we’ll turn her. Would you like that?”

For the first time tonight, panic flares in Clarke’s chest. Dying she can deal with—she’s made her peace with that. But becoming one of them is a torture she couldn’t bear. It’s a fate worse than death. Which is why she should’ve driven that stake through Bellamy’s heart when she had the chance.

“Don’t turn her,” Bellamy says, defeated. “I’ll kill her.”

“You had your chance. Murphy, Emori, take her to the basement.” Ah, the basement. That’s where she didn’t check.

In a flash, Murphy and Echo have swapped places. Murphy grabs her around the neck and pulls her roughly away from the wall, keeping her hands pinned behind her back with his other hand. A moment later, he cries out, and drops his hands from her body. A silver arrow sticks out of his elbow.

“What—” Echo starts. She’s cut off by the sound of the front door crashing in.

“Clarke, run!” It’s Anya’s voice. Relief courses through Clarke’s veins.

Somewhere nearby a window shatters, and then flames erupt around her, quickly spreading across the wooden floors and licking up the walls. Fire—another excellent way to kill vampires.

“Get out!” Echo yells. “Leave her!”

For a moment, Clarke meets Bellamy’s eyes through the flames that separate them. She’s rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes from his. She doesn’t know whether she wants him to escape, or if she wants him to burn.

“Go!” he urges. Hands grab at her, dragging her towards the front door. Her feet and brain catch up, and she starts running. They make it out as sirens pierce through the night, and she follows Anya and the others over the fence. They keep running until they’re at Jasper’s house, and he ushers them inside.

They’re all panting as he shuts the door, sweating and dirty, Clarke still covered in blood.

“What were you thinking?” Anya growls, turning on Clarke right away. “I told you to wait. You’re fucking lucky I know you well enough to know when you’re lying.”

“You could’ve been killed, Clarke,” Monty agrees. Clarke looks to Jasper, who just looks away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It doesn’t matter,” Clarke mutters. “She’s there, I almost had her, I could’ve—”

“Could’ve what? Ended up as vampire food? Imagine if we hadn’t showed up when we did. Because of you we had to go in early. If you’d _waited_ for the others to get into town, we could’ve killed them all. Now they know we’re after them.”

“I killed two of them,” Clarke says defensively. “I could’ve killed them all if—” she cuts herself off, unable to say the words. The truth of the situation hits her in the gut.

“If what?” Jasper prompts, when it appears no one else is going to.

She takes a deep breath. She’s not going to cry. “Remember my dead husband?” The other three look at each other awkwardly. “Turns out he’s not as dead as we thought.”

No one else says anything. There are no gasps of surprise, no rush to console her, no _holy shit, are you sure?_ Her stomach drops, and she looks at each of them in turn, none of them meeting her eyes.

“You knew,” she accuses, her voice cracking.

“Clarke—” Monty starts, his voice gentle and coddling, like he’s talking to a small child. She feels like a small child.

“But he died,” she whispers. “I watched him die in my arms. The funeral—"

She breaks then, the tears spilling over. The adrenalin has worn off, she’s exhausted from fighting, from lack of sleep, from the rollercoaster of emotions she’s been on. She falls into Monty’s arms.

“Two days after the funeral, we went back, just to check. And he’d been dug up,” Anya explains. She’s not angry now. Clarke doesn’t know whether Anya is capable of being sorry, but she at least knows when to back off.

“I thought we should tell you the truth, but Anya figured it would be better for you if didn’t know,” Jasper says. “That it would be easier to move on if you thought he was dead.”

“Not that it worked,” Anya mutters. “Can someone make her stop crying?”

“Sorry that I’m upset about finding out my husband isn’t actually dead,” Clarke spits, pulling away from Monty.

“He may as well be,” Anya reminds her.

“You should’ve told me.”

Anya shrugs. “We need to work out a game plan for the remaining vampires,” she says. She’s done with Clarke’s crisis. “Are you going to be a liability on this or can we count on you to help?”

Her tears have stopped now, briefly at least. She’s exhausted and covered in blood, and her throat and chest hurt for reasons that could be physical or emotional. But she can’t go home now, because all that will lead to is overthinking, and she doesn’t want to do that. She needs to keep busy.

“I’m fine,” she assures Anya.

Monty gives her disbelieving look. “Are you sure? You just had a huge shock. If you’re not feeling up to this—”

“I’m fine,” she snaps. Does she look that pathetic?

Anya nods. “So how many were there, Clarke?”

“Three,” Clarke says. “Four,” she corrects herself, realising she’d forgotten to count Bellamy. _He’s one of them now_ , she reminds herself. “There could have been more still in hiding.”

“Four,” Anya muses. “We could probably take them on ourselves but it won’t hurt to have backup. I’ve already contacted Indra. She’s sending over three of her best.”

“We’ll need to work out where their new hideout will be,” Monty says. “Chances are they’ll want to lie low tonight after the fire, but we should still be on alert.” 

“I think they’re after me, specifically,” Clarke says. “So if we need to use bait…” she trails off, letting them come to the conclusion on their own.

“That’s a last resort,” Anya says firmly. “For now, you should all stay inside at night, for your own safety, until we work out what we’re going to do.”

“You can stay here tonight, if you like,” Jasper offers. Clarke nods, knowing it’s probably for the best. She’s not up to taking on four vampires again tonight, and she doesn’t know if they’re out there waiting for her.

“Clean yourselves up and get some rest,” Anya says. “Monty, go and let your wife know you aren’t dead. We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

-

Some people forget after a traumatic event, but not Clarke. She remembers everything. Has honed in on every minute detail, from the cologne he was wearing, to the feel of the bitumen pressing into her knees as she knelt beside him in the middle of the road.

It was their wedding anniversary—just one year. They got all dressed up, and he wouldn’t tell her where they were going. He’d set up a picnic on the riverbank, and they’d gorged themselves on strawberries and champagne until the sun set, and the fairy lights he’d strung up in the trees lit up. He gave her a present—a silver bracelet with an infinity charm on it.

 _Silver is for twenty-five years_ , she’d scolded him half-heartedly. They told each other they didn’t need material objects, and Clarke hadn’t bought him anything.

 _I’m just pre-empting,_ he’d laughed. She remembers how giddy she felt at the prospect of him thinking that far ahead—they both thought they’d get that twenty-fifth anniversary. They didn’t even get two.

She gave him a present then—took him into her mouth beneath the twinkling lights until he came down her throat. They packed up the picnic and drove home, where they made out in the driveway for half an hour like a pair of teenagers sneaking around under their parents’ noses.

That’s where the magic ended. Clarke doesn’t know how long the vampires were watching them, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, but as soon as she slipped out of the passenger seat, white dress askew from Bellamy’s wandering hands, they had descended.

Clarke thought they were being robbed, at first, when she was slammed against the side of Bellamy’s truck by a surprisingly strong woman. Fangs glinted in the moonlight, and Clarke screamed and struggled, and it was only by pure luck that her silver bracelet made contact with the vampire’s skin, giving her enough time to crawl back into the truck, scrambling for any kind of weapon she could get her hands on.

Her fingers closed around a wooden chopstick, from when Bellamy picked up Chinese takeout the week before, just as the vampire grabbed her again, and with as much force as she could muster, Clarke jammed the wooden stick into her attacker’s chest—where she promptly disintegrated into ash and blood.

Luck, pure luck—that’s what saved Clarke. Luck Bellamy didn’t get. By the time Clarke had fended off the vampire who attacked her, two others had dragged him on to the road, one holding him down, the other with her teeth in his throat.

The scream that ripped from her throat alerted them to her presence, and she would have been dead too if it weren’t for Anya, Monty, and Jasper showing up with their weapons. Anya with her silver and wooden arrows, Monty with a flame-thrower, and Jasper with a good old-fashioned stake.

Clarke barely took notice of the three of them scaring the two vampires off. She ran to Bellamy’s side, trying to staunch the bleeding from the open wound in his neck as she sobbed, begging for him to stay alive.

Eventually, Anya, Monty, and Jasper dragged her distraught, blood-covered body into Anya’s house.

 _He’s gone_ , Anya had whispered, and Clarke knew she was right. He’d lost too much blood, she couldn’t feel his pulse, the light had gone from his eyes. He was gone, he was gone. He was gone. Only, he wasn’t.

She wakes up, heart pounding, sweat coating her body. The nightmare is already fading, too quickly for her to grasp onto any solid images. She breathes deeply, trying to slow her racing heart. She checks the time on her phone—3:02am.

She’d spent the afternoon at Anya’s discussing tactics to draw out the vampires, along with Monty, Jasper, and a couple of hunters from Indra’s group, Nyko and Lincoln, and Indra herself. She hadn’t slept last night, and she hadn’t expected to sleep tonight, but she supposes the exhaustion had to hit her eventually.

Throat sore and dry, she drains the water from the bottle on her bedside table, then slips out of bed. She knows she won’t go back to sleep now. She almost hadn’t put Bellamy’s shirt on to sleep in tonight, but ultimately decided she didn’t want to let this new version of Bellamy taint her memory of him. She still loves the man she knew. The vampire he is now can’t take that from her.

She pulls the shirt over her head now and discards it on the floor, before tugging on a pair of running shorts and a sports bra, and a different one of his shirts. She knows she should heed Anya’s advice and stay inside while it’s still dark out, but she’s restless, and maybe a little suicidal. She needs to run to _feel_ something. And if Echo or one of the others happens to be out there waiting for her, so be it.

She grabs a stake—her pretty dagger was lost in the fire—ties her hair up in a ponytail, and sets out of the house. She keeps her mind focused on the dilemma at hand—finding Echo and friends and putting an end to their miserable excuses for lives.

They hadn’t managed to find the new hideout, and there are still no missing person’s reports, nor bodies found. That doesn’t mean much—vampires are clever. They know who to target, who won’t be missed for days, weeks, months. And they know how to dispose of a body. Plus, if they’d fed the night before, they may not have needed to go hunting last night, especially if they were more focused on finding a new place to rest during the daylight hours, before the sun came up.

Clarke runs on autopilot, her ponytail swinging. She runs until her legs ache and her chest burns, until she the exertion has her doubled-over, heaving against a tree on the nature strip like she might vomit. She doesn’t, and as she gasps for breath, she slowly becomes aware of a feeling that she’s being watched. Her skin prickles, and the hair on the back of her neck stands on end.

She looks around, hand instinctively reaching for her stake, and there, standing on the sidewalk, almost glowing in the moonlight, is Bellamy.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone at night,” he says.

She doesn’t hesitate this time. She lunges for him, but he’s faster, anticipating her attack, and he darts out of the way. Before she has a chance to swing again, he’s knocked the stake from her hand, and has her pressed up against the tree, his large hands pinning her wrists down. The bark scratches against her back where the t-shirt has ridden up. _His_ t-shirt.

Breathless, she tries to struggle against him, but she’s really no match for his strength—even before he was a vampire, he could hold her down firmly enough that she couldn’t escape. Though, back then she hadn’t _wanted_ to. The memory sends a jolt to her cunt, and she flushes, ashamed of herself for thinking about _that_ at a time like _this_.

His breath hitches, and he bares his fangs. Her heart stutters as he leans forward. She whimpers as the tips of his fangs graze over her neck. Fuck, he’s going to bite her. And why the fuck does the thought of it have a rush of wetness pooling in her panties?

He must take her whimper for fear, rather than arousal, which she’s glad of. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs.

“What do you want then?” she replies, her voice strained.

“I just want to talk, to explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she says. She tries again to break free of his grip. “You’re not him, you’re not really him.” She sounds desperate and distraught to even her own ears. She can feel her chest tightening, and tears prick at her eyes. She fights in futile to hold them at bay.

“I am, Clarke,” he says, trying to soothe her.

“Stop it,” she says, choking on her tears. “You don’t need to torture me. You’ve already won so just kill me already. It would hurt less than this.”

He pulls away from her, but not before patting her down to make sure she’s not hiding any other weapons. She glares at him, her face hot. His eyes trail over her, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he growls. “How could you think that? How could you think I would ever—” he says. He swallows. His fangs are neatly tucked away now, and he’s indistinguishable from the husband she lost. Even his dark, gentle eyes show no hint of the violent creature inside.

“You’re a _vampire,_ ” she reminds him, and reminds herself too. She cannot let his familiar face allow her to forget that. “Killing is what you do.” 

“I know,” he whispers. “I know you must hate me. You have every right to. But I’m still me. Just let me explain. Please.”

“You had five years to explain,” she snaps, through her tears. “Five years you let me think you were _dead_.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I grieved you,” she sobs. “I fucking sat at your grave every day for weeks, and the whole time it was fucking empty. I cried myself to sleep for months, missing you, aching for you. I would’ve given anything to have you back with me. And _now_ you show up wanting to explain? How am I supposed to believe that this isn’t just some sick game to you?”

“Clarke,” he says, and his voice quivers. It makes her falter, her heart stutter in her chest. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. But I promise I’m still me, I’m still your husband. The man you loved.”

“The man I loved would never have deserted me for five years.”

He seems at a loss for words at that. Clarke has stopped crying now, and she wipes at her eyes with the ball of her hand, trying to get rid of the excess tears. She’s already feeling embarrassed about her little break down.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually whispers. “Every night I thought about coming back to you. But how could I? I’m bound to my maker, and she wouldn’t allow me to come back.”

A dark stab of jealousy punctures her chest, on top of her grief and anger. The knowledge that he’s bound to someone else. That he’s probably been fucking her every night while Clarke was lying awake, aching for him. She glances to his left hand, and the lack of a wedding ring only proves it. She swallows down bile and resentment at the thought of it. Of course he wouldn’t keep the ring, it’s worth no sentimental value to him now. He probably pawned it the first chance he got.

“Besides, I thought it would be better if you didn’t see me like this,” he continues. “That it would be easier for you if you thought I was dead. I’m a fucking monster, Clarke, and your reaction to seeing me like this only proves it. You’re scared of me.”

“I’m not scared,” Clarke denies, a knee jerk reaction. But then, she realises, she’s _not_ scared of him. Angry, yes. Surprised, definitely. But she’s not actually scared. It’s like deep down she knows he’s telling the truth—he doesn’t want to hurt her.

“You tried to get Echo to spare me,” she remembers. Her voice still sounds a little watery. He flinches at the mention of Echo’s name. Perhaps it’s due to the venom lacing Clarke’s tone as she says it. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” he says hoarsely. She waits for the explanation, but he doesn’t elaborate. They stare at each other in silence, until his heavy gaze on her becomes too much, and she has to glance away.

“Why did you come back here?” she asks finally.

“Echo’s idea,” he says. “Apparently I haven’t adjusted to her way of life as well as she’d like. She thought bringing me here, showing me that you’ve moved on, that you’re better off without me, would snap me out of it. But I think now, maybe she always meant to kill you.”

“Well, her plan failed. I’m still alive.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He looks her up and down, more slowly this time. “And—have you moved on?” He sounds almost hopeful. Hopeful that she has, or hasn’t moved on?

Clarke nods, even as Bellamy’s eyes rove over her body. She knows he recognises his shirt. He steps forward, takes her left hand, lets his thumb run over her wedding rings. Her stomach flips over. Fat tears drop from her eyes and onto her cheeks.

“Bellamy,” she whimpers. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay if it still hurts.”

He presses his lips to her forehead, and her eyes flutter closed, leaning in to the comforting touch. God, it’s been so long since she’s been touched like this. Though she’s still angry and hurt, still nowhere near forgiving him for what he put her through, still unsure of what being undead has done to his mind, her baser instincts want nothing more than to feel his skin on hers.

Her heart races as she tilts her head, pressing her lips against his neck. She wants him to kiss her, touch her like he used to, she craves it. Her body responds to his touch, and to her own wayward thoughts.

He steps back, letting her go abruptly, as if he can read her thoughts. She’s pretty sure vampires can’t read thoughts—they made that up for Twilight, right? His eyes graze her neck, and she swallows thickly, recognising the real reason he pulled away—he’s thinking about biting her again. The thought only makes her blush harder, and he takes a careful step backwards.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “For everything. I promise I only ever wanted to protect you. I don’t know if you can forgive me. I just—I just needed you to know that.”

Clarke nods. “Okay,” she says.

“I think I can convince Echo to leave town,” he says. He doesn’t look entirely happy about it. Clarke doesn’t _feel_ happy about it.

“No,” she blurts, before she can stop herself. She opens her mouth to explain herself, but the words won’t come. She doesn’t know if she could even explain it to herself.

“Okay,” he agrees quickly. Yet, he still seems hesitant. “Echo won’t be happy until you’re dead though,” he says. “So you can’t come out at night anymore, okay?”

“Fine,” she agrees. A promise she doesn’t really intend to keep, but it’s easy to say it.

“Let me take you home,” he says. She deliberates for a moment, before silently nodding her assent. A vampire bodyguard isn’t the worst idea in the world.

He walks beside her the whole way home, keeping a few feet between them. She doesn’t know if that’s for her benefit or his. He makes sure she gets inside safely, and then he leaves her, with a one word promise. “Tomorrow.”

-

Of course, she doesn’t sleep. How can she, after that? Her mind is whirring, replaying the encounter over and over in her head, analysing the meaning behind everything he said, the inflection of every word, trying to work out how much of it was true. She hates herself for it, because she doesn’t want to be naïve, but the more she thinks about it, the more she starts to believe him. Part of her _wants_ to believe him.

Worse than that, whenever she thinks about the way he touched her—his arms pinning her against the tree, his lips against her forehead, his fangs brushing her neck—she feels a rush of heat, desire curling inside her belly, wrapping around her body, making her ache with want.

At first, she tries to deny it—she’s not attracted to a vampire. She’s not turned on by the thought of him sinking his teeth into her, feeding from her while he fucks her. He’s a vampire now, true, but he looks the same, feels the same, and she can’t stop thinking about it. She’s throbbing between her legs, her fingers coming away slick with her arousal when she reaches down to touch herself there.

She gives a distressed groan. She’s hornier than she’s been in five years. Her libido significantly decreased after he died, and she’s barely masturbated since then, let alone had sex with someone else. But now she feels, empty, craving, her skin still alight from where he touched her, her neck erupting in goosebumps whenever she remembers how close he got to biting her.

She slips her hand back into her panties, thoughts on Bellamy as she plays with her clit, tentatively at first, still half ashamed of what she’s doing, what she’s fantasising about. She imagines Bellamy taking her in a field underneath the moonlight, against her will, holding her down roughly, forcing her to be his human sex slave.

She speeds up her motions, rubbing at her clit frantically now, more desperate than she’s been in years. She bites her lip, whining pathetically, so close to orgasm now. It’s not until she pictures Bellamy’s fangs piercing her skin that she comes, crying out as she spasms, fingers still pressed firmly against her clit.

It’s over too fast, and she’s not completely satisfied, but her embarrassment outweighs her lust now. God, how could she have let herself succumb to those thoughts? Imagine if her hunting group found out she fucking masturbated to thought of a vampire. She’d never live it down.

Face flushed, breathing still unsteady, she buries her head in her pillow and counts slowly down from fifty to try and calm her racing heart. She’s asleep before she can reach thirty.

-

Clarke doesn’t tell the others about her run in with Bellamy. For one thing, she’d have to admit she deliberately ignored Anya’s warning to stay inside at night. And for another, she really doesn’t want to have to explain why they’re both still alive. Why she didn’t get any information from him. She’s too confused to deal with Anya’s judgement, or her wrath. Not just Anya, but Jasper and Monty and the other hunting group too.

So when she meets them at Anya’s house the next day, she keeps her mouth clamped firmly shut, and hopes her face doesn’t betray any signs of vampire fever.

“Still no luck on the hideout,” Monty says. “Jasper and I will continue the search today. There are a surprising number of empty houses in this town.”

“No missing persons reports either,” Anya says. “And no bodies. I think we should start checking in on people we know live alone. Clarke, you and I can do that. Indra, Lincoln, Nyko, you can help Monty and Jasper, so we can get through the search faster.”

The seven of them split off into three groups, and Clarke and Anya start their mission by visiting their elderly neighbour whose lives alone, and whose son only visits once a week. She answers the door, and the two of them breathe a sigh of relief before heading to the next stop on their list.

Over the course of a few hours, they visit as many people as they can, and still no bad news. They decide to stop for lunch at the bakery on the main street, so popular the line is usually halfway out the door.

“It’s baffling,” Anya says as they wait in line.

“What is?”

“That aside from the vampires you killed, and the fire we set, there’s virtually no trace that they’re here at all,” she muses. “You’re the only person they’ve tried to kill.”

Clarke huffs. “That’s because they’re here to kill me specifically. I would assume,” she adds quickly, lest Anya figure out she has inside information.

“Because of Bellamy?”

“Yeah,” Clarke says. The line moves forward, and they enter the bakery.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Anya says. “Vampires don’t have any ties to their old lives. They remember it, sure, but Bellamy wouldn’t have any strong feelings for you. Of murder or otherwise. Sorry.”

Clarke feels a stab of annoyance. Anya has been doing this for over ten years now, and she’s always acted like she knows everything about vampires. Clarke was certainly convinced of it, even up until a day ago. But Anya has never done anything but _kill_ vampires. She’s never actually _talked_ to one.

“How do you even know that?” Clarke says, trying not to snap.

“It’s obvious, Clarke,” Anya rolls her eyes. “How else do you think they completely disconnect from humanity to become killing machines?”

“Right,” Clarke says flatly, but she’s not convinced. That’s all Anya is basing her vampire knowledge on? _It’s obvious_? Her expertise is nothing but assumptions and biased observations.

Clarke half wants to argue, but she knows Anya would see right through her. Clarke can’t give her mentor even the slightest hint that she’s anything less than one-hundred percent anti-vampire. She doesn’t know what Anya’s reaction would be if she found out Clarke is having sympathetic thoughts towards vampires. Or _a_ vampire, at least. So she keeps her mouth shut, and her doubts to herself.

-

As promised, Bellamy visits her that night. It’s well after nightfall, and Clarke has half assumed he’s not coming, though she doesn’t dare move from her spot by the window, watching, waiting for his arrival.

She spots him just before midnight, appearing so quickly she doesn’t even notice him approach. One moment it’s empty darkness, the next, he’s standing on her front porch, the sensor light blinking on. Her heartrate picks up, and it’s nothing to do with fear. He meets her eyes through the window, and she lets the curtain fall closed, before making her way to the front door and swinging it open.

Her heart lodges in her throat as his eyes trail up her body, and her palms feel all clammy. It’s still somewhat disarming to have him standing there, looking just like she remembers. Looking at her just like he used to.

“You came,” she says softly.

He nods. “Of course.”

She doesn’t know what she’s doing. This is all completely wrong. She shouldn’t be meeting vampires in the middle of the night, dead husband or not. He’s still the most dangerous creature she’s ever encountered, and she’s weaponless and vulnerable, wearing only a thin blue dress. He could break her in half with his bare hands. He could drain the life from her in minutes, or he could do it slowly. Chain her up and drink her blood and fill her with his poison.

Of course, he can’t touch her while she’s in the house, not without her express invitation to allow him in. She can remain perfectly safe and still have whatever conversation she feels she needs to have with him, while he’s out there on the porch. She doesn’t need to take that risk.

And yet, she finds she wants to. She doesn’t know if it’s a death wish or just her innate sense to trust him. Or maybe it’s just because it makes her knees a little weak to know that he _could_ do all that to her, maybe even _wants_ to do all that to her, but he won’t. She just _knows_ he won’t. It’s more than just the fact that he’s had ample opportunity to kill her already, and hasn’t. It’s a gut feeling, too strong to ignore.

She steps aside, his gaze trailing her every move. She’d dressed up for him, before she could even question what she was doing. The dress is made of cotton, is too short to go out in public in, large expanses of pale white skin on display, her hair swept up away from her neck, like she’s trying to tempt him, daring him to resist biting her. She’s removed the silver bracelet too, tucking it safely in her jewellery box.

Her nipples pebble against the thin fabric as a cool breeze brushes past her and into the house. He looks unsure of himself, like he doesn’t quite know if he should be there or not.

“Come in,” she says, her voice sounding entirely more husky than she intends. Her cheeks heat up—God, why does she sound like she’s trying to seduce him?

Despite his obvious hesitation, he accepts her invitation, and he crosses the threshold into her house. Their house, really. It was his too, once.

Clarke closes the door and bolts it shut, then turns to see Bellamy silently surveying the décor, stepping into the doorway to the living room to study the place further. Of course, it’s all exactly the same as before he died. Clarke could never bring herself to change a single thing.

He built that coffee table. They picked that sofa out together. She painted that artwork for his birthday. That chip in the wall is from the time he thought it was a good idea to play soccer in the living room with Miller. God, she got so mad at him for that. Like that kind of thing was actually important.

“It hasn’t changed much,” he says, stating the obvious.

“No,” Clarke agrees.

She slips past him into the living room, and she thinks she hears him suck in a breath as her bare skin grazes his. He doesn’t really dress any different, either. Maybe his clothes are darker than what he used to wear—he’s wearing black again tonight. But it’s just a t-shirt and jeans. No capes or collars or unfamiliar clothing stolen from victims. Did he just go late night shopping one night and buy eight versions of the same outfit?

He follows her to the couch, hesitates, then elects to sit away from her, on the rocking arm chair he was going to read to their kids on, once he got her pregnant. That’s one thing she can be grateful for, that they hadn’t started having kids yet. She can’t imagine how hard it would have been had he left her with a young child. She doesn’t really want kids, anymore.

The silence stretches on, as neither of them speak. Clarke isn’t quite sure what to say. She only knows that she’s not done yet, that there’s still too much unsaid between them for him to leave again.

Eventually, he breaks the silence.

“I don’t have much time,” he says. “Echo will notice I’m gone.”

Clarke stiffens at the mention of Echo’s name, her fingernails curling into her palms. She sucks her cheek into her mouth, trying to quell the unmistakable churn of jealousy in her gut. It’s not fair that Echo has had him for longer than Clarke ever got. It’s not fair that he got to move on while she didn’t. It’s not fair that he still looks so fucking sexy, and that he belongs to someone else.

“Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting,” she mutters, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

He stares at her a little longer, while she avoids his gaze, even though she’s the one who asked him here, who wanted him to stay.

“Why am I here, Clarke?” he asks gently, when the silence has gone on long enough.

She wants to deflect. She could easily turn the question back on him. But then, he already explained why he came back, and why he stayed away. And she believes him.

“I don’t know,” she says helplessly. It’s mostly honest. She can’t put into words the inexplicable tug she feels towards him, the need she feels for him, despite her better judgement. Her sick, grief addled brain just wants to be held and fucked by the husband she thought she’d lost forever.

She lets herself look at him properly, her gaze lingering on his chiselled arms. She worries her lip as she allows herself the guilty pleasure of imagining him putting those strong arms around her.

He licks his lips. “Are you scared?” he asks her.

“No,” she says, blinking out of her fantasy. “I told you I wasn’t.”

“Your heart is beating so fast,” he points out.

Clarke drops her head, picking at a loose thread on the hem of her dress, as a deep blush creeps over her body. “It’s not because I’m scared,” she admits.

He gives a low, almost inaudible moan, and she dares to look up at him. His jaw is tight, his pupils dilated.

“I wish you wouldn’t blush like that,” he whispers. Her heart skips a beat when she realises the implication of his words. It only gets her blushing harder, more blood rushing to her face. His jaw ticks.

“Because it makes you want to bite me?” she breathes.

“Yes,” he says shortly. “Are you scared now?”

She shakes her head. She should be terrified, probably. She’s sitting in her living room with a live killing machine, and he’s just confessed to finding her appetising. “I’m not scared,” she asserts.

“Maybe you should be.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I don’t want to,” he agrees. “But I can’t promise I’m totally in control of myself. You don’t know how strong the bloodlust is. How enticing you smell. I haven’t eaten for days, I—” he stops short. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I don’t want you to hate me. To think I’m this disgusting creature incapable of self-control, whose only purpose is to kill. But maybe that’s what I am.”

Clarke doesn’t say anything. She’s hearing what he’s saying, all the words should only support her less than favourable views on vampires. But her brain is stuck on _how enticing you smell_ , and her heart is pounding and she’s sure he can hear it.

“I never wanted you to see me like this,” he whispers. “I wanted you to remember me how I was.”

“I understand,” Clarke says, and she does. She doesn’t _like_ it, but she understands. She thinks maybe, had the roles been reversed, she may have done the same thing.

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. His body is stiff in the chair, and he looks on the verge of fleeing at any moment. She realises why he’s so convinced she’s scared of him—he’s absolutely terrified of himself.

She stands abruptly, and he flinches. His expression is wary as she approaches him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, nervous.

“I want to prove that I’m not afraid of you,” she says. That’s true. It’s also true that she doesn’t feel that she can be in his presence another moment longer without feeling his touch. But part of her also wants to prove to him that she’s better than Echo. She wants to remind him that she’ll always be able to touch him better than anyone else ever will.

“Clarke,” he chokes out, as she lowers herself onto his lap, straddling him, her hands resting on his shoulders.

She may have lost her mind. She hasn’t forgiven him for deserting her, for being loyal to another woman who isn’t her, whether it’s in his control or not. She doesn’t even hardly understand her own feelings about the situation, except for the fact that she’s horny, and she wants him, and she needs to be touched _now_.

He doesn’t touch her though. He keeps his hands firmly gripped on the arms of the chair as she lowers her head, tilting it to the side so her neck is bared to him. She wraps her arms around his head and presses his lips to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Fuck, fuck.”

She shifts her hips towards him, angling closer to his body, pressing down against a huge bulge. She lets out a satisfied grunt, and he moans. She supposes that it’s true that a vampire’s hunger is directly connected to their sexual desire. Or maybe he just wants her in more ways than one.

“Clarke,” he says, his voice strained. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t understand my strength. And if I—if I come, I might not be able to stop myself from biting you.”

She pulls his head away and looks into his eyes. He looks truly tortured. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

“Vampires,” he says. “It’s not the same.”

“Who did you kill?”

“Lots of people,” he admits. “I always try to find people who deserve it. People the world could do without. But fuck, even those people have lives, families, dreams.”

“Do not tell me you’re feeling guilty over ridding the world of white supremacists and homophobes,” she says. “You were always too kind for your own good.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m a monster.”

“I don’t care if you’re a monster,” she says.

“I—” he shakes his head, words failing him.

She cups his face in her hands. “I want you to fuck me,” she says.

“Clarke—” he shakes his head again. She rocks herself against his bulge, and he lets out a shuddering breath. It’s not because he doesn’t _want_ her that he’s hesitating.

“Please,” she begs, pleading him with her eyes. “I need this. For closure.”

“Closure,” he mutters, and Clarke doesn’t quite gauge his meaning. She tilts her head questioningly, and he looks up at her. She leans in, slowly, and he doesn’t flinch away. He lets her ghost her lips over his, and she shivers, her core pulsing at even just this slightest touch.

Something seems to snap in him then. His arms leave the safety of the armrests, and he clutches her body to him tightly, capturing her lips with his possessively. She lets out a half gasp, half moan, and then she’s kissing him back, tasting his tongue with hers.

His fangs graze her bottom lip, and she can’t help but wish he’d press a little harder, puncture the skin. His lips are forceful, bruising, but he’s careful with his teeth.

Clarke is not careful at all. She’s desperate, aching, unable to hold anything back. She wants to devour him with her kiss, make him come apart beneath her as she rubs her throbbing cunt against his hard on.

She slips her hands under his t-shirt, fingers exploring the ridges of his abs, only for him to grab her wrists to stop her. She assumes he just wants to be in control, and she relishes the tight grip around her wrists as he bends her arms behind her back, then holds them there with one hand, while his other hand threads into her hair, ruining her perfect updo. Fuck, she loves him like this. Forceful and dominating.

Other than the fangs, he feels just like she remembers. His hard, broad chest and shoulders, his soft, full lips. She squashes down any unwanted emotions, and focuses on her growing need, humping his clothed cock even more fervently now, her breath coming out loud and fast, her lips still taking everything she can from him, and him giving it to her, roughly, hungrily, passionately.

“Fuck, Clarke,” he groans. “You’re still so desperate for it, aren’t you? So fucking needy for my cock.”

“Uh huh,” Clarke agrees. “I haven’t been with anyone else,” she admits. “Not since you.”

“Five years, baby?” he groans. Clarke stifles the surge of raw emotion she feels at the word _baby_. Like he used to call her. Like it hasn’t been five years at all. “Five years you’ve been waiting for my cock?”

“Yes,” she gasps.

“Good,” he growls. “Couldn’t stand it if anyone else touched you.”

His lips press against her jaw, again and again, and then he lets her wrists go to lift his hands to the straps of her dress, pulling them down to reveal her tits to him. He lets out a hiss as his eyes drop to her naked breasts, bouncing before him, her nipples pink and hard, pointing towards him. She knows Echo can’t compete in that department.

His lips ghost across her collarbone and down to her breasts, as he snakes a hand down between her legs. His fingers press against her clit through her soaking panties as he sucks a nipple into his mouth.

Clarke spasms, the combination of sensations sending a jolt to her cunt, her head rolling back, a silent moan on her lips. He lavishes her tits and nipples with his tongue, playing with her pussy through her panties at the same time, until her head is spinning with desire, and her cunt is heavy, and throbbing so hard she thinks he might be able to hear it.

“You still get so wet for me, baby,” he groans.

“Bellamy,” she whines. “Bellamy, please. Fuck me. I need your cock, I need it so bad.”

He crushes his lips to hers again, and then he’s standing up, carrying her with him. Her tits jiggle with the movement as he hoists her up, her legs and arms wrapping around him for stability, though it’s clear he’s got it covered. Clarke had always been attracted to his brute strength when he was alive, and now he’s even stronger.

“If we’re doing this,” he growls, “we’re doing it right.”

He carries her upstairs, towards the bedroom, and she’s clutching at him as if he’s life, and not death like she knows he is when she’s in her right mind. Every moment he’s not inside her is more torturous than the next, and the journey upstairs seems like an eternity, and it’s been too long since his fingers were pressed into her folds through her panties.

She squirms in his arms, pulls his head back so she can put her mouth on his again. He groans into her mouth, and then he’s slamming her against the hallway wall, her head narrowly missing a picture frame.

She gasps in surprise, but it’s swallowed by his greedy, demanding kiss. His hands grip her ass, and he holds her firmly against the wall, her feet still off the ground. He shifts her weight slightly, his tongue still in her mouth, moving his hand from her ass to curl into the waistband of her simple cotton panties. He rips them on one side, tearing through the flimsy cotton like it’s paper, then pushing the material away from her pussy so they’re dangling from one leg.

He wrenches his mouth from hers with an agonised groan, pressing his mouth against the crook of her neck. Images of his fangs puncturing her skin flood her brain as her arousal trickles obscenely from her cunt and onto her thighs.

“Shit, Clarke,” he groans. “You smell so good.”

She doesn’t know if he means the heady scent of her cunt that seems to have taken over the room, or her flowery shampoo, or the blood pounding through her veins, but regardless, it makes her hot all over.

“I need you,” she says, breathless and shaking. She reaches between them for the fly on his jeans, and he helps her get them undone, pushing his pants and boxers out of the way hastily to release his magnificent cock.

It’s is exactly how she remembers it too, massive and bulbous and veiny, always so hard for her. And right now, she’s never craved it more. She tightens her knees against him, pulling him to her, telling him silently what she needs. She doesn’t want to wait any longer, she needs him inside her.

He nudges her folds open with his cock, pushing the head inside her. She can tell he’s struggling to hold himself back, afraid he’ll hurt her.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re tighter than I remember.”

Clarke spreads herself wider, opening herself up to him, and he finally sheaths himself inside her, stretching her so wide she cries out, half pleasure, half pain. But even the pain feels incredible—she’s finally full, like she hasn’t been in so long. He has her pinned against the wall with his huge body, caging her the way she’s always liked.

“Yes,” she gasps. “Fuck me. Fuck me.”

He’s still trying to restrain himself as he thrusts into her, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck strained. Clarke clutches at him, almost like she’s afraid to let him go. Like if she stops touching him, he’ll disappear on her again.

She can feel him loosen the reins a little, fucking her harder, obviously deciding she’s not so fragile as he first thought. His lips press against her neck as he winds her closer to orgasm, and Clarke can’t fight the image of him biting her there, sinking his fangs into her jugular and feasting on her blood. His earlier words cycle through her head, making her dizzy with desire.

_I can’t promise I’m totally in control of myself. You don’t know how strong the bloodlust is. How enticing you smell. I haven’t eaten for days. If I come, I might not be able to stop myself from biting you._

She’s sure he’s going to cave, to lose that last bit of control and pierce her throat with his fangs, drink from her, use her. And god, does she want him to. The mere thought of it has her on the verge of climax.

She opens her mouth to beg him for it, but she’s rendered incapable of words when he puts his huge hand over her mouth at the same time as he starts fucking her even harder, frantic now, her tits bouncing wildly. He slams her against the wall behind her over and over, until her eyes roll back into her head, her eyelids fluttering, and waves of pleasure roll over her.

He removes his hand from her mouth so he can hear her moan, instead wrapping his long fingers gently around her throat.

“So pretty,” he grunts, obviously unable to voice full sentences now. “Gonna come in you,” he says. “Fill you up with my come just like you like.”

Clarke nods, gets out a strangled _yes_. She’s almost anticipating the bite more than she was anticipating her orgasm. Fingers gripped tightly on one of her thighs, his other hand still wrapped around her neck, not tight enough to cut off any airflow, it takes only a few more strokes before he’s shuddering, stilted groans escaping his lips, flooding her cunt with his seed. His head leans towards her neck, and Clarke’s heart spasms, sure this is it. But all he does is drop his head to her shoulder, shoulders heaving. Disappointment settles heavy in her stomach.

He moves his hand from her neck, which she now realises was there as an insurance policy—if he couldn’t stop himself from biting, he’d bite his own hand. He slips his arms around her so he can hold her to him, cradle her in his arms like a doll.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks desperately, forehead pressed against hers.

Clarke shakes her head. Pain is far from what she feels, though she might be sore and bruised tomorrow. But she could have taken more, she wants more now, doesn’t know if she’ll ever get enough.

He looks down at her, and a single tear drops catches in his eyelashes.

“What?” she whispers, brushing the tear away with her thumb. Right now, she can almost forget that he’s a vampire. She feels tethered to him, like she always has. But after five years apart, the pull feels stronger than ever.

“I should go,” he says, tucking his cock away and doing his jeans back up. Her stomach lurches sickeningly. That’s the last thing she wants.

This was supposed to be closure, a final, poetic ending for their love story. But now she’s sure she’ll never be ready to let him go. The fact that he’s a vampire matters less and less. He’s everything she remembered him to be; strong but gentle, kind but fierce. All the reasons she married him are still there.

All she knows is she wants him here with her. She cannot stand to lose him all over again.

“Do you have to?”

She wants to ask him to stay until morning. Her heart squeezes as she realises she’ll never get to wake up with him again. Something she should have already come to terms with, maybe. But him hurtling back into her life like this somehow brought all those old dreams came back to life.

“Echo will be wondering where I am.”

The fantasy world she’d started building in her head collapses around her. She feels embarrassed, realising she’d already been thinking of ways to make a relationship between a human and a vampire work. But of course, none of that matters, because the connection they shared when he was alive belongs to Echo now. Clarke seethes with jealousy and resentment.

“Right,” she says shortly. She finally sets her feet back on the ground, pushing him away. She hastily pulls her dress back up, and smooths it out over her dripping, aching cunt.

“Did you get the closure you needed?” he asks. Clarke swallows. No. Not even close. She nods anyway. “You can let me go now,” he says. Clarke wonders if she’s imagining the sorrow in his voice. “You can move on.”

Clarke nods, folding her arms over her chest. “Are you going out to hunt?”

He shakes his head. “No. Back to the hideout. She thinks I’m out hunting now.”

Clarke nods again, and when she says nothing else, Bellamy takes it as his cue to leave. As she watches him go, Clarke gets an idea. If she can’t have Bellamy, she can at least find Echo and finally get the revenge she’s wanted for so long. And she knows exactly where to find her, because Bellamy is going to lead her straight there.

-

This time, she’s not going in guns blazing. She learnt her lesson last time, and she’s not going to make the same mistake twice. She just wants to find out where the hideout is so she can tell Anya, and then the whole group can plan an attack. One that preferably spares Bellamy. Whatever her feelings about him are—and she’s not entirely sure she even knows what they are—she doesn’t want him to die. Not again.

She follows him at a distance—he seems in no hurry to return to his family, not using his vampire speed at all. It’s like he’s just taking a pleasant starlit stroll.

She hadn’t had a chance to change, so she’s still just wearing her tiny blue dress, though she had rid herself of her ripped underwear and slipped on a pair of flats. Not the most practical vampire hunting outfit, but then, she’s only doing recon. She had grabbed a stake as she left the house, just in case. She’s not _that_ stupid.

She moves quietly, ducking behind trees and bushes, hoping she’s far enough away that he won’t catch a whiff of her scent or hear the thudding of her heart. He doesn’t seem to notice her presence. She’s had enough training from Anya, is adept enough at this that she knows how to sneak up on a vampire.

He leads her away from the town centre, to an abandoned development site, where a couple of unused display homes still sit, the windows covered with blackout blinds. It seems obvious now. Perhaps Monty is losing is touch.

Bellamy stops outside the gate to one of the display homes, and Clarke hides herself behind a stone pillar, right next to the sign welcoming them to _Willowbrook_. There isn’t a willow or a brook in sight.

Tentatively, Clarke peeks out from behind the pillar, wondering if he’s gone inside or if he’s still standing there. She feels a jolt when she sees him staring right at her.

In a flash, he’s closes the distance between them, turning fifty metres into an inch. Clarke presses herself against the pillar, trying to use the cool stone to ground herself. Her heart beats erratically, and she feels as though he’s sucked the air from her lungs.

“You’ve seen it,” he says. “You can go home now. Before Echo catches you.”

Clarke swallows, trying to catch her breath. “Did you know I was following you the whole time?” He nods. “How?”

He raises an eyebrow, and even in the pale moonlight, Clarke can see he’s amused. “Even if you weren’t dripping come and arousal from your cunt, I could smell your blood from miles away.”

“There were other people in the vicinity—” she tries, but he shakes his head.

“I’m particularly attuned to _you_.”

Clarke squirms under his intense stare, tries not to read into his words too much. What does he mean, saying shit like that to her?

“Why didn’t you stop me?” she asks.

“Maybe I knew you couldn’t be stopped,” he says. He shrugs. “Maybe I wanted you to see.”

“You know why I wanted to see it, right? I’m not out shopping for real estate. I was going to take the information back to Anya and the others.”

“That’s up to you,” he says. Clarke doesn’t understand. Does he _want_ her to kill Echo and the others? Does he want to be killed himself? He licks his lips. “Now _go home_. If Echo finds you here, I won’t be able to stop her from killing you.”

Clarke huffs out a humourless laugh. It always comes back to Echo, and the mere mention of her name makes Clarke’s chest feel tight. She has to pretend to be blasé or she might burst into tears. “What does she have against me, anyway?”

He squints, tilting his head, like he doesn’t quite understand the question. “Please, Clarke. You have to know.”

“You said you came here to sever ties with your old human life,” she says. “I don’t see why _she_ has such a stake in the outcome. She already has more impact on you than I ever did. More of a connection than we ever had.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “See, Clarke, that’s simply not true,” he whispers. “She hates you because she knows while you’re still alive, I’ll never be completely bound to her. That I’ll never be hers while I’m still yours.”

His words hit her like a train, and her mouth drops open. Her heart leaps, and something foreign lodges in her throat, making it hard to breathe. She can’t totally believe it, and she shakes her head, uncomprehending.

“But—but you slept with her. She kept you away for five years.”

“She only convinced me of what I had already half convinced myself. That you’re better off without me, that I shouldn’t taint your memory of me. She has a certain sway on me, yes, because she’s the one that turned me,” he admits. “But what I feel for _you_ is stronger than that. And I never fucking slept with her,” her snorts.

“But you took off your wedding ring,” Clarke murmurs, eyes flicking to his left hand, the tan line long faded.

“You noticed that, huh?” he grimaces. Clarke nods. There’s no possible way he can explain that away. If he loved her that much, if it were really true that his bond with Clarke was stronger than his bond with Echo, he never would have taken it off.

He reaches for the bottom of his shirt and starts pulling it up. Does he think a flash of his abs is going to make her forget about this? He keeps going, bunching the shirt up to his nipples. There, between his pecs, hangs a white gold band on a chain, glinting in the moonlight.

“Echo became even more murderous every time she saw it,” he says. He drops his shirt back down. “So I had to hide it. And I was happy to hide it from you. I thought—I thought all this would be so much harder if you knew.”

“Knew what, exactly?” Clarke says. She doesn’t know where the tears gathering in her eyelashes came from.

“I’m still fucking in love with you, Clarke.” A tear drips down her cheek, and she fails to choke back a sob. “Clarke, Clarke,” he says, worried, brushing the tear away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make this harder. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I just—it’s been so long since I’ve heard you say that,” she says, swallowing down her tears.

“I love you?” he says, and another sob wracks Clarke’s body.

She nods. “And now you’re just going to leave again and it will be like you died _again,_ it will break my heart _again_. It hurts too much. I know I shouldn’t want you to, but I need you to stay with me. I haven’t felt okay since you left, I don’t know how to be okay without you.”

“Clarke,” he says, pained. “I can’t stay. As long as Echo is alive, as long as she knows I’m yours, you’re in danger.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

Clarke shakes her head like a petulant child, tears still streaming from her eyes. “How would you even convince her to leave anyway? Fake my death?”

“No, I—” he hesitates. “I would have to make her believe she’s more important to me than you are. I’d have do something she’s been wanting for a long time.”

“And that is?”

He grimaces. “Fuck her.”

“No,” Clarke says, a primal reaction.

He sighs. “Clarke—”

“Let me think of another way,” she says. “There has to be a way. And if I can’t think of anything in a week, I’ll let you do it your way.”

He swallows, considering her. He nods, the movement barely perceptible. “Okay,” he agrees. “A week. Now, _go_.”

Clarke nods, and as she skips off, she somehow feels lighter, like a weight has been lifted off her heart. She stops, and turns back to see him still watching her. Probably admiring the way her dress reveals her ass with every step.

“Will you come and visit me again tomorrow night?” she calls.

“Yes.”

She smiles. She can’t remember the last time she did that.

She questions herself on her walk home, whether she’s being an idiot, believing everything he told her. He’s a vampire, he could be lying about it all. There could be some bigger plot that she’s unaware of. But even if Echo wants her dead, she cannot believe that Bellamy does. She can see that he’s not like Echo, can still see the humanity in him. And she’s resolved to do anything to free him of his maker.

-

There’s still no luck with finding the hideout, according to the two teams that did the scouting yesterday. According to Clarke too. She makes no mention of the information she received last night, though she wonders more than once if she should.

If she told the others everything that had happened with Bellamy over the last few days, maybe they’d understand, and perhaps they’d be able to find a solution to get Echo and the others out of here without having to lose Bellamy too.

But she knows they wouldn’t get it. They’ve seen too much loss and devastation caused by vampires to ever believe the creatures are capable of anything but violence. Anya especially. She lost her step-sister to vampires—the whole reason she started hunting them in the first place. She understands Clarke’s bloodlust, her need for revenge. But she’d see her soft spot for Bellamy as a weakness—all the more reason to kill him once and for all.

Clarke might have more luck with Monty and Jasper—their interest in vampires is purely because they like hunting vampires. They love vampire lore, love the thrill of seeking them out and the satisfaction of seeing them banished from existence. But she can’t trust they wouldn’t tell Anya, so she keeps it to herself. Even actively tries to throw them off the trail, suggesting places far from the abandoned display homes.

Though they’re no closer to finding the vampires’ abode, there is finally a missing persons report.

Clarke sucks in a breath as Anya brings the report up on her laptop. The sweet, smiling face of Clarke’s regular bartender, Delilah, pops up on the screen.

“They got Delilah?” she whispers, guilt and horror swirling in her stomach.

“You know her?” Lincoln asks. Clarke nods, still staring at Delilah’s picture.

“She works at the bar I usually go to.”

“She never came home from work last night,” Anya says. “Her mother reported her missing this morning.”

She swallows thickly. Could she have stopped this? If she’d told Anya about her meetings with Bellamy, would Delilah still be alive right now? But she shakes her head—no. That wasn’t Bellamy. He would’ve been with her around that time—the bar shuts at midnight on week nights. And she hadn’t found out about the house until presumably too late. She consoles herself with these assurances.

“What are we going to do?” Jasper asks.

“Search for the body,” Indra says, and Anya nods in agreement. “We need to find it before the cops.”

“And we continue the search for the hideout. There can’t be too many places left to search,” she turns to Monty. “You sure you didn’t miss something at one of the places you already checked?”

“I mean…it’s not totally impossible,” he sighs. “I didn’t see any signs of vampire occupation, but I guess I could have made a mistake.” He doesn’t sound totally impressed with the idea of Anya doubting him, though.

Anya splits them into groups again, with Monty and Jasper back on door duty, and the rest out scouring dumpsters, underbrush, and the river for Delilah’s body. Clarke is almost relieved when they don’t find it. Maybe her disappearance has nothing to do with vampires. Maybe she spent the night at her boyfriend’s house and forgot to tell her mother. Clarke can’t even convince herself of the lies.

They search until sundown, when they quickly make their way home, lest they be caught out after dark. No luck with the body, and to Clarke’s relief, Monty and Jasper had come up short as well. The display homes haven’t even crossed their minds, and they’re talking about retracing their steps, doubling back over the places they’ve already checked.

Content with the knowledge that Bellamy is safe, at least for tonight, Clarke locks herself in her house and waits for his arrival.

She expects him around midnight, like last night, so she tries to fill the rest of her evening in by cooking dinner, taking a bath, and reading Twilight. She really can’t take that book seriously though, and by the time she’s done all that it’s still only 9pm, and all there is to do is lie on her bed and think of him.

She slips on some sexy red lingerie that she hasn’t worn in over five years. A sheer, lacy thong and bra, with cups that barely encase her tits. She may as well be naked for all the skin the ensemble covers. She wants him to be under no illusions about what she expects to happen tonight. She slips a silky black robe over the top and heads downstairs to wait by the window.

He’s still not there at midnight, and she starts to get worried. He’s not coming. He did what he had to with Echo and they left town. Or worse—everything he’s told her over the past few days has been a lie, and now he’s out on a killing spree with his pack, laughing at her naivety. Her concerns probably aren’t rational, but she can’t help jumping to the worst possible conclusions.

At 1am, Clarke retreats to her room again, hurt, confused, anxious. She hangs up her robe and pulls out one of Bellamy’s t-shirts, ready to climb into something comfortable and curl up under the covers.

Before she gets the chance, she hears a loud thud from her balcony. Startled, Clarke whips her head towards the window, heart clenching when she sees Bellamy standing there, shirtless, looking haggard and weak. Clarke races to the glass door, still wearing just her red lingerie, panic flaring in her chest.

Upon closer look, she can see his arms and chest are covered in deep red welts, his neck too, long and winding, as if caused by a whip or a chain. He’s barefoot, and the chain around his neck, is gone, his wedding ring with it.

Heart hammering, Clarke flings the door open. He hisses, as if her presence causes him pain, and staggers back against the balcony railing, half in darkness, half bathed in light streaming from the bedroom.

“Don’t,” he growls, holding his arm out, stopping Clarke in her tracks. “Don’t come any closer.” His voice is strained, his breaths uneven. He’s clearly suffering. Clarke doesn’t understand—vampire wounds heal quickly, part of the reason they’re so hard to kill.

“Why?” she asks anxiously. She wants to go to him, but the wild look in his eyes keeps her standing in the doorway. “What happened?”

“I shouldn’t even be here,” he groans. “I—” he cuts himself of with another groan. “Fuck. Look at you.” He bares his fangs, and Clarke’s heart lurches. He’s looking at her like he wants to devour her.

“Bellamy,” Clarke pleads. “Tell me what’s going on. What happened? Please.”

“Been too long since I’ve eaten,” he says, his words coming out in shorts breaths. “Can’t heal properly. Echo—she chained me with silver overnight. She only just let me out. I’m only here because I didn’t want you to think I abandoned you again.”

“ _She_ did this to you?” He nods, wincing, like the simple action pains him. Clarke’s heart flutters at the thought that he came all the way here, in that condition, just to see her, to make sure she didn’t think he’d deserted her again. “Why?” Clarke demands. She’s hot with rage that Echo dared to hurt her husband this way.

“Found out I was with you,” he grunts. Clarke swallows guiltily. This is all her fault. Her eyes trail over the wounds on his chest, and she feels some primal, base need to lay him down and tend to his wounds. But that’s not going to help a vampire—the only way to heal him is to give him fresh blood. “She knew I’d come here. She wants me to lose control. Kill you.”

He looks almost rabid, and isn’t too far-fetched to think he _could_ lose control at any moment. Lunge towards her, knock her to the floor and sink his fangs into her jugular until he’s had his fill. The thought only thrills her. She’s trying so hard not to find him sexy, but he’s all wounded and brooding and self-loathing, the lacerations across his hard chest reminders of what he went through for _her_. It’s sick, the way the thought of it has heat pulsing in her core.

“Clarke,” he groans. “You smell so good—I can’t be here any longer or I’ll—”

“Bite me,” Clarke finishes for him.

“What?”

“Bite me, please, I want you to. You’re hurting, and I can make it better.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t do that to you.”

“I’m asking you to,” she says. If she weren’t so worried about him, she’d be excited. Maybe she is a little excited anyway. “I want it, Bellamy. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He groans again. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he rumbles. “I might not be able to stop myself.”

“It’s worth the risk. Please,” she begs. “Let me do this for you.”

She’s already stepping out onto the balcony. His chest heaves, his hands grip the railing so tight his knuckles are white. She holds out her hand as she approaches, watching his adam’s apple bob and his eyes squeeze shut as he tries to find the strength to say no.

His hand leaves the balcony, slipping into Clarke’s outstretched fingers. She backs into their bedroom, and he follows reluctantly, like he’s still trying to resist. She pulls him into the light of the bedroom, and the true extent of his wounds are revealed. Deep and red, curling over his arms, his chest, over his ribs, snaking around towards his back, and down into his jeans. She can’t imagine the pain he must be in.

Dark circles have formed under his eyes, making him look almost gaunt, despite his muscular physique. He’s halfway between exhausted and manic, his pupils are blown, eyes darting back and forth. His breathing is ragged, and his fangs protrude over his bottom lip. God, Clarke knows she shouldn’t be turned on when he’s so injured, but she can’t help it.

She lets go of his hand, and moans as she strokes his face. Her rapidly beating pulse must be driving him insane. He blinks down at her, brow creased, betraying his conflicting emotions. He wants to bite her, but he thinks he shouldn’t.

His eyes plead with her, as if begging her to end his misery one way or the other, take the decision away from him.

She drags her hand down his face, then stops, her wrist lingering against his lips. What she really wants is for him to bite her neck, but she figures they should start small.

He presses his open mouth against her skin, and she can feel her pulse thudding against his tongue. His fangs graze ever so slightly over her veins, and she sucks in a breath, anticipation building.

“Please,” she whimpers softly.

He lets out a strangled groan, his hands flying to her arm, fingers curling around her forearm so tightly she knows he’ll leave bruises. And then his fangs are puncturing her skin, and she can’t stifle the cry of pain he elicits, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s too far gone to notice now anyway.

He sucks at her wrist hungrily, eyes closed, and Clarke watches him, bottom lip caught between her teeth, breathing heavy. Her head spins with heady desire, making her feel faint with want. Now that the initial pain of the rupture has subsided, it doesn’t actually hurt that much, and all she can think about is how hard he’s gripping her, how sexy he looks, even as he’s almost feral from hunger, gulping down mouthfuls of her blood.

The sensation tingles up her arm, spreads heat throughout her body, makes her pussy beat in time with her pulse. Her veins thrum with something intoxicating, and she feels almost high. She’s squirming, her legs tightly pressed together as she soaks her pretty red thong, her breathing shallow. She doesn’t want him to ever stop.

A trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth, and Clarke whines at the sight of it. Fuck, this shouldn’t turn her on so much. His eyes flick open, and they’re almost entirely black.

He wrenches his mouth from her wrist, uncaring that blood still weeps from the wound. He already looks stronger, colour returning to his skin, the gashes on his body beginning to heal. For a moment, disappointment stabs Clarke in the gut, thinking he’s done, that he’s much more in control of his impulses than he made out.

But then he’s grabbing her, tugging her body flush against his chest, swooping in to bury his fangs in her neck. She gasps, more in surprise than in pain, and her eyes flutter shut in ecstasy as he drinks from her, his firm body pressing against all her soft, yearning places. She feels a little faint, and she falls a little limp in his arms, glad of the support or she’d simply collapse to the floor. She doesn’t know if it’s from blood loss or from pleasure.

His hands rove over her body, slide down to cup her ass, and then he’s lifting her from the floor, seconds later depositing her on her bed—their marital bed—his mouth still latched to her neck. Blood trickles from her wrist, down her arm, staining the white sheets beneath her.

“ _Bellamy_ ,” she moans. She’s half sure he’s going to kill her, and half sure she wouldn’t mind.

She writhes beneath him as he sucks at her neck, rubbing her thighs together, desperate for friction. He can’t keep his hands still, she feels like he’s everywhere at once, her ass, her hips, her breasts, everywhere but where she really craves him.

Finally, he pulls his mouth away from her neck, and he looks down at her, eyes wide and manic, his mouth rimmed with her blood, his sharp fangs dripping with it. Clarke stares back at him, electricity flickering over her skin, heart ricocheting around her chest. He runs his tongue over his teeth and swallows, leaving his fangs shiny white again. She sees no trace of humanity in him now, he’s an untamed creature, unpredictable and wild. Clarke loves it.

“You taste divine,” he rasps. Clarke feels a pang between her legs. “Better than anyone I’ve ever had before.”

Where human Bellamy, or even vampire Bellamy not high on her blood, would have been plagued with guilt right now, begging her forgiveness, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from her neck and wrist, this version of Bellamy disregards her welfare completely.

He pulls on the cups of her lacy bra, letting her tits spring free. He drags his fangs over a nipple, firmly caressing her other breast with a large hand. He doesn’t break the skin, just makes her shiver and squirm. She feels delirious with want.

Then he’s yanking down her panties, exposing her bare pussy, roughly pushing his fingers into her with no warning. She cries out, bucking against his hand.

“Gonna fuck your pretty cunt,” he growls. “Gonna use you just like you want, isn’t that right? You want to be a vampire’s whore, don’t you? Don’t lie, I can feel how wet you are, how bad you want it.”

“Yes,” Clarke whines. “Use me. Fuck me.”

“Filthy little thing,” he says, still fucking her with his fingers. “Want to chain you up and drink from you whenever I please. Fuck you whenever I please.”

“Yes. Yes. God, yes.”

“God can’t save you now, pretty thing.”

He abruptly pulls his fingers away and Clarke is left open and empty and wanting, her cunt fluttering around nothing. He deftly undoes his pants, and Clarke blinks, a slow lethargic blink albeit, and he’s naked.

He pounces on top of her, and it’s clear his vitality has returned, and his injuries are nothing more than faint scars. Blood drips down his chin as he leans down to kiss her, his tongue exploring her mouth like it’s his to conquer. She can taste the metallic tang of her own blood in his mouth, and somehow it only turns her on more.

Her blood has restored his strength too, and he has her wrists pinned down above her head with an iron grip no mortal could break free of. With his other hand, he pushes her thighs open, spreading her wide before he penetrates her. There’s no restraint this time, no worry that he might damage her. He’s brutal, unflinching, pounding into her like she’s nothing but a toy for him to use and dispose of.

Clarke’s breaths come shorter and louder, something inside her coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap. Tears stream from her eyes, and the sheets beneath her are wet with blood, her skin streaked with it, and his too as his body rubs against hers.

She’s so close now, eyes squeezed shut, moaning indecipherable words that could be something like _Bellamy, please, yes, oh, oh, oh._ His mouth descends on her neck again then, and she cries out as he creates another set of fang marks, millimetres from the first. Clarke’s body jolts, and then she’s shuddering through a life-altering orgasm, gasping for breath, her back arching towards him, still completely pinned down by him.

She realises through her haze of pleasure that he’s coming too, the act of drinking from her sending them both over the edge, and then she’s full of him, and he’s full of her, and she thinks it must make her his wife all over again, and that’s the last thought she has before she blacks out.

-

She doesn’t know how long she’s out for, but she eventually comes to, slowly, woozily, her eyes blinking open and the room coming back into focus. She can feel the weight of Bellamy’s arm slung over her body, his head pressed in against the crook of her neck, and he’s gently licking over the marks on her neck.

Clarke groans, suddenly becoming aware of every sore spot in her body. The impressions of his hands on her arms, wrists, ass, thighs, hips where she knows she’ll have fingerprint shaped bruises later. The wounds on her wrist and neck, throbbing painfully now. And her poor, abused cunt, feeling thoroughly used and beaten, yet still somehow achingly hollow.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, and Clarke can already hear the guilty self-loathing in his voice. She turns her head towards him, and he’s watching her, concern etched in the lines on his face. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, I lost control I—”

“I’m okay,” Clarke croaks. “That was so fucking good,” she moans.

He lets out a noise somewhere between remorse and exasperation. “I could’ve killed you.”

“Worse ways to go,” Clarke says, eyes still half-lidded, a cheeky smile spreading over her face. He still looks incredibly guilty, and her smile drops. She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I loved every second of it,” she promises. “You did nothing I didn’t want you to do.”

“Vampire venom will do that to you,” he snorts.

“Make you horny?”

He nods. “We don’t always have to inject venom. But it makes the whole experience pleasurable. So you’re happy to die.”

“Is that what it was like when Echo—you know—” Clarke swallows, unable to finish the sentence, unsure if he’ll want her to. It can’t exactly be a happy memory for him, the night he was killed.

He nods. “I knew I didn’t want it,” he whispers hoarsely, eyes unfocused, like he’s reliving the event in his mind right now. “But it felt really good. Like a drug. I couldn’t even beg her to stop, because the venom left me completely powerless. And it was awful because I knew I was going to die, and that I was going to leave you, but I couldn’t fight, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t do anything. I just wanted to keep that feeling of whatever the fuck she was doing to me.”

Clarke swallows, tears pricking her eyes, mirroring the glistening in his. She’d been so focused on how traumatic that night was for her, she hadn’t even considered what it was like for him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’d do it all over if it meant you’d be safe.”

Clarke nods, then figures it’s time to change the subject. “How long was I out for?”

“Only a few minutes.”

It’s obvious now, that it hasn’t been that long. The blood on the sheets is still wet, and he’s still covered in it too, clearly having stayed beside her rather than going to clean up. She can feel is matted in her hair, coating her body.

“Isn’t all this blood driving you crazy?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “It’s not too bad now that the hunger has been sated. It’s just kind of a pleasant aroma. Like when you’re walking past the bakery and you smell freshly baked bread.”

“I don’t know, the smell of baked bread makes me go kind of feral.”

He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Her stomach swoops. She wants to stay like this with him forever. Blood and all.

She strokes his chest with the backs of her fingers, her rings grazing against his skin.

“What happened to your ring?” she asks him.

“Echo took it,” he says. Clarke isn’t surprised, she figured as much.

“I’m sorry about what she did to you.”

“It’s not your fault,” he assures her, adamantly. Clarke nods, understanding. She knows it’s not really her fault—Echo is the murderous bitch who can be blamed for everything from the very start.

Bellamy takes her arm and turns her wrist inwards towards him. He presses a kiss to the bite mark there, still bleeding ever so slightly. “We should get you cleaned and bandaged up,” he says. “Don’t want to waste good blood.”

Clarke flicks her eyes from where his hand is engulfing her wrist, to look at his face. He’s looking at her, glint in his eye, slight smirk on his face.

“Was that actually a joke?”

He breaks out into a grin. “If you’re really okay, then I’m allowed to joke about it, right?”

Clarke smiles, nodding. “I promise I’m okay.”

Bellamy leans in, kissing her lips once, then twice, a gentle, comforting pressure. “I love you,” he murmurs. Clarke’s heart lurches.

“And I love you,” she whispers. She hears his breath hitch, and she’s overwhelmingly thankful that she said it. When was the last time someone told him they loved him? She doesn’t think it’s far-fetched to believe she was the last one, five years ago. “I love you,” she repeats, so he knows she means it, that it wasn’t a slip of the tongue.

“You mean it?” he whispers. She nods. His mouth crashes against hers again, and Clarke whines into his kiss, her face becoming wet with tears that aren’t her own.

He rolls on top of her again, kissing her fervently. His hand closes around her wrist tightly, and she winces, as he applies pressure to her wound. He hastily pulls away, flying to his knees, putting distance between them.

“Sorry,” he gulps. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m just a little sore. Not in a bad way. I just need a little time to recuperate.”

He nods, his shoulders relaxing. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Once he’s darted to the bathroom and returned with the first aid kit, he sits back on the bed with her, on the side with slightly less bloodstains. He wipes her body down with a wet cloth, then slips the shirt she’d dropped earlier over her head.

She sits up beside him, and lets him clean and dress her wounds, her neck first, and then her wrist. He’s no doctor, and he’s doing it all wrong, but Clarke says nothing, just enjoying being looked after by him again after so long.

It’s after three by then, still a few hours until dawn. Clarke wants to spend them with him, but she’s exhausted, and she doesn’t know if she can keep her eyes open.

“Bellamy,” she murmurs sleepily, leaning on his comforting, steady shoulder. “Will you stay a little longer?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises.

“You’ll be safe here,” she says. “Echo can’t come in. And you can sleep in the attic. I don’t have a coffin, but—”

“I don’t need a coffin,” he laughs. “Honestly, we mostly use those to freak out humans. They are good for keeping the light out, but there are other ways.”

“So you just carry around coffins to mess with humans?”

“Old vampire tradition, apparently,” he grins.

Clarke snorts, the only laugh she’s capable of in her current worn-out state. Her eyelids feel heavy, and they slowly blink closed, unable to stay open any longer.

“Don’t let me sleep,” she says. “I want to be with you.”

“You can sleep,” he assures her. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

And with that promise, Clarke lets herself drift off into a deep, peaceful sleep, the first one she’s had in a very long time.

-

When she wakes again, the room is pitch black, and she assumes it must only be a few minutes later again. She feels rested though. She can’t remember the last time she felt so refreshed after sleeping.

She’s a little disorientated, and as her eyes adjust to her surroundings, she realises she’s not even in her room at all, but the guest room. Bellamy lies beside her, eyes closed, looking peaceful as he sleeps.

Affection spreads throughout Clarke’s chest as she watches him sleep. He even seems to breathe like a regular human.

She grabs her phone, starting when she sees it’s almost 10am. She’s supposed to be at Anya’s in less than ten minutes. She could probably make it, it’s only next door, after all. But then she remembers the bandages on her neck and wrist. There’s no way she can hide those from Anya.

She quickly taps out a text to tell Anya she’s sick and can’t make it to the meeting today, and not to check in because she might be contagious.

Then, she scoots closer to her husband, burying her head into his chest and wrapping her arms around him. He squeezes her tighter to him, letting her know he’s awake. She hums happily. How to make this moment last forever?

“How did you sleep?” Bellamy asks, his voice gravelly.

“Better than I have in a long time,” Clarke admits. He brings a hand to her hair and strokes her gently, and they let the silence linger between them, until Clarke breaks it a minute later, too caught up in her own thoughts to stay quiet. “Bellamy?”

“Mm?”

“How do we do this?”

“What?”

“Be together? With you as a vampire and me as a human? And with Echo wanting to kill me and fuck you?”

“I don’t know, Clarke,” he sighs. “I think—the only way to make sure you’re safe is for me to do what Echo wants.”

“You can’t seriously mean that.”

“I don’t want to, believe me,” he says. “But there isn’t another way.”

“You could turn me,” Clarke blurts. The words are out of her mouth before she’s even had a chance to fully form the thought. But as soon as she’s said it, she knows it’s what she wants. An eternity with her soulmate? Who wouldn’t want that?

“ _No,_ ” Bellamy says, so fiercely it makes Clarke jump. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard him sound so resolute about something before. “No, absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Clarke whines. She’s excited now, thinking of the possibilities. She props herself up on her elbow, leaning over him, eyes wide and exuberant. “Think about it,” she continues. If you turned me, it would only make our bond stronger, right? It would make your bond with Echo so insignificant, you wouldn’t be beholden to her anymore. And I’d be yours.”

“Technically that’s true, but—”

“But what? Don’t you want to spend forever with me?”

“Of course I do,” Bellamy says softly. “But it’s not that simple. I’ve never turned anyone before, for starters. I could fuck it up. But that’s the least of my worries. You don’t know what you’d be giving up. Your friends, your family, real food.”

“None of that means anything without you.”

“You’d never see the sun again.”

“You _are_ the sun.”

He blinks at her, and for a moment, she thinks he’s considering it. But then—

“No, Clarke,” he whispers. “I can’t kill you. I can’t think of a single thing worse than that.”

“So it’s what? You fuck Echo and we’re both unhappy forever?”

“At least you’ll be alive.”

Clarke pouts, but it’s clear he’s not changing his mind. She really does admire his tenacity, his commitment to doing what he feels is the right thing. But right now it’s just frustrating—the solution is right there, but he won’t do it because he feels guilty.

“Okay,” she says finally. “But you still said you’d give me a week to think of another way, so I still have time.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

Clarke wriggles back down into his arms. She’s sure after a week of this, she’ll be able to convince him to turn her, if she can’t think of another way. If not, well, maybe she’ll just have to find another vampire to turn her.

-

She lets him sleep for a few hours, eventually slipping out of bed and down the hallway to their bedroom. The bed has been stripped bare, courtesy of Bellamy no doubt. He must have done laundry while she was sleeping.

She crosses the room to her full-length mirror, eager to see the damage he inflicted last night. She pulls his shirt off, standing naked in front of the mirror. There’s still blood in her hair, but most of the rest of her looks relatively blood-free.

She’s decorated with bruises, over her arms and thighs mostly, but a few dotted over her hips and stomach and when she turns her body, she notices fingerprints on her ass too. Her cunt pulses with desire. It’s so fucking hot what he did to her last night.

Once she’s admired her bruises long enough, she carefully unwinds the bandages around her wrist and neck. She strokes her index finger over the puncture marks on her wrist, two small red dots, like a snake bite.

She stands closer to the mirror to see the bites on her neck, turning her head on an awkward angle to see them properly. Her pussy flutters at the sight. This would be the only thing she’d be giving up, really, she thinks, if he turned her. But then, who’s to say vampires can’t bite each other? Just because her vampire blood wouldn’t actually provide him any sustenance doesn’t mean it couldn’t still be sexy as hell.

Eventually she stops preening, and pads to the bathroom to shower, get the remaining blood from her body and wash it from her hair. She plays with her pussy as the hot water beats down on her, stroking her folds, circling her clit, teasing herself until she’s sopping wet, and desperate to have him again.

She returns to the guest room in a towel, her skin still glistening with water droplets, her hair damp. Perhaps she shouldn’t wake him, but she’s gotten herself all worked up now, and she doesn’t want to wait until tonight.

She drops the towel to the ground, then crawls back onto the bed on top of him, leaving languid kisses over his chest and down his abs, pulling the covers back to reveal him still completely naked. Her lips trail down past his belly-button, his pelvis, and his cock is becoming engorged now, but he’s still pretending to be asleep.

She kisses his balls, runs her tongue over them, slow and teasing. She lifts her mouth off, ready to put her mouth on his cock, get him hard the rest of the way, but he grabs her by the chin, stopping her, her mouth frozen open.

“What are you doing?” he rumbles.

“Waking you up,” she says coquettishly.

“Is that right?” He drags her back up to almost eye level, then flips her over, trapping her beneath him. “Did no one ever warn you not to wake a sleeping vampire?”

“What are you going to do?” Clarke challenges. “Bite me?”

“Haven’t you had enough?” he teases.

Clarke shakes her head. “Are you hungry?”

He tilts his head, considering. “I could eat.”

He presses a brief kiss to her lips, and Clarke turns her head to the side, eagerly awaiting his bite. However, he bypasses her neck, instead shuffling lower down the bed, settling himself between her legs. It’s not what she had in mind, but she’s not going to complain.

His hot breath tickles her pussy, and he drags a finger along her slit, gathering her arousal on the pad, before sucking it into his mouth.

“What’s it like?” she asks. “Now that you’re a vampire.”

“It’s kind of like cotton candy,” he grins. “Not nutritious or filling, but still delicious.”

Before she can offer a retort, he dips his tongue between her folds, locating her clit easily and gently teasing it with the tip, before flattening his tongue against it. Clarke spreads her legs wider, and pushes her fingers into his unruly curls.

It seems five years of lack of practice hasn’t inhibited his cunnilingus technique—he still knows exactly where to put his tongue, when to go hard and when to back off. He has he on the brink in minutes, but he doesn’t let her come, instead pulling his mouth away, and kissing her thigh instead, while the tight, hot feeling between her legs ebbs.

When it’s dulled to a low throb, he moves his mouth back to her cunt, working her up the same way, until she’s panting and writhing like she’s in heat, her hips bucking against his face. He delves his tongue inside her, curling it up to hit the spot he knows will make her come instantly, at the same time pressing his fingers against her clit.

She comes so hard she squirts on his face, so much liquid gushing from her cunt it’s almost embarrassing, and the moan she lets out is downright lewd. But he’s not even done yet, and he licks back up to her clit, circling the sensitive bud with purposeful care, so as not to overstimulate her too much.

He’s slower this time, more gentle, teasing. She can feel his fangs graze her pussy lips as he licks into her, deep as he can go. And then, moments before she comes, he pulls his mouth away again, and sinks his fangs into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. She cries out in pain and pleasure, riding the wave as he fills her with more of his poison, at the same time as he drinks from her new wound.

“Fuck,” she moans. “That’s so hot.”

He pulls his head back, and his lips are coated in blood. Her chest rises and falls heavily as she tries to regain some composure. Bellamy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and crawls back up the bed to lie beside her.

“Happy now?” he says.

Clarke nods, snuggling up to him. “You can sleep now, I won’t wake you up again.”

“I don’t know if I believe you,” he says, pretending to be annoyed with her. His soft, loving eyes betray him though. “You’re such a needy little thing.”

“Haven’t you missed that?”

“Yes,” he says. He kisses the bridge of her nose. “I probably shouldn’t bite you again for a while. The venom can stay in your system for up to a week, and I don’t want you to overdose.” Clarke pouts, and Bellamy laughs. “And to think only days ago the mere thought of a vampire made you sick to your stomach.”

“Go to sleep,” Clarke tells him.

“Okay, baby,” he agrees, already closing his eyes. Clarke watches him for a while, until she’s sure he’s asleep, and then she gets up to dress her new wound. They’ve stained the sheets in this bed too now—Clarke might have to invest in some darker coloured sheets if this is going to keep happening.

She then slides back into bed beside him, and nods off again. She wakes God knows how long later to the sound of her phone vibrating. She groans, reaching for it, checking to make sure it hasn’t woken Bellamy, but he appears to be dead to the world.

Clarke scowls at Anya’s name on her screen, annoyed at being disturbed, even if it is after four in the afternoon.

“What?” Clarke answers brusquely.

“I’m in your kitchen,” Anya says. “I brought soup.”

“Soup?”

“Because you’re sick. Monty told me I had to.”

“Since when do you do anything Monty tells you to?”

“Since Harper made soup and he shoved it into my hands when I said I was coming over here. Now come downstairs, I have news.”

Clarke’s annoyance morphs into panic, as what Anya is saying finally sinks in. She’s downstairs, _right now_. And Clarke is naked, in bed with a vampire, covered with his marks. Anya can absolutely not see her in this state.

Clarke fake coughs into the phone. “I’m too sick,” she says. “I don’t want to infect you.”

“Come down right now or I’m coming up. It’s important.”

There’s a beat of silence before Clarke relents. “Fine,” she huffs, then ends the call. She glances at Bellamy again, and his eyes are still closed, he’s still breathing steadily.

Clarke slips off the bed and quickly tiptoes back to her room to pull a robe over her naked body. She checks herself in the mirror, but the robe doesn’t quite cover the bite marks on her neck. For lack of better options, she winds a scarf around her neck and prays Anya won’t think it’s weird.

She makes her appearance in the kitchen, where Anya is waiting with a Tupperware container sitting on the counter in front of her.

“Soup,” Anya says, nodding to it. “You’re welcome.”

“What kind is it?”

“I don’t know, pumpkin. I have more important things to talk about.”

Clarke reaches for the contained, suddenly realising she’s famished. It’s still warm and she pops the lid open, the soothing scent filling her nostrils.

“This is chicken noodle,” she says, bringing it to her lips.

Anya ignores her. “We found the hideout.”

Clarke pauses mid-sip, hunger forgotten as her stomach thuds with dread. “What?” she says, lowering the container. “When? How? Where?”

“There’s an abandoned development area on the outskirts of town. We didn’t think to check it because we knew construction had been halted before it even began. But Jasper remembered there are a couple of display homes there. One of them has definite signs of vampire occupation.”

Clarke’s empty stomach churns. “You’re sure?” she says faintly, though she knows Anya is already sure. She’s right, after all.

Anya nods. “We’re going to wait until sundown tomorrow. Not enough time to prepare properly tonight. Will you be well enough to join us?”

“Yes,” she whispers. What else can she say?

“Good,” Anya says firmly. Clarke suspects she wouldn’t have accepted any other answer from her.

Clarke expects Anya to leave then, so Clarke can go back to her secret vampire lover. Instead, Anya’s eyes drop to the scarf around Clarke’s neck, and she frowns.

“Why are you wearing a scarf?” she asks. Except it’s less of a question and more of an accusation.

Clarke swallows, trying to look innocent. She fingers the end of the scarf absently. “I was cold.”

“Clarke,” Anya says, warningly. She reaches for the scarf, grabbing the end of it. Clarke tries to pull away, but it only serves to reach Anya’s goal, the scarf unravelling, dangling from Anya’s hand and onto the floor. Anya, though, is more focused on Clarke’s neck.

Clarke blushes deep scarlet, shame rising in her. She doesn’t bother trying to hide the marks with her hand, it’s too late for that now.

“What have you done?” Anya hisses.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Oh? So you haven’t been fucking your vampire ex-husband, letting him feed off you like some disgusting vampire groupie?”

Clarke doesn’t think it’s possible, but her face gets even hotter. “It’s not like that. And he’s not my _ex-_ husband. We’re still married.”

“I think the death certificate would beg to differ.”

“Anya, you have to listen to me. He’s not like other vampires. He’s still the same as when he was alive, he’s a good person. He only kills evil people. Rapists and abusers and people like that.”

“He’s still one of them,” Anya growls. “It’s an abomination. He’ll kill you in the end. Or worse, turn you. I cannot stand by and let you ruin yourself for a vampire.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The only thing that can be done when dealing with vampires. Kill him. You’re off tomorrow night’s mission.”

“Please, Anya, don’t,” Clarke begs, tears springing to her eyes. “Don’t kill him. I’ll do anything. Kill the others, I don’t care. Just spare him. I can’t lose him again.”

Anya shakes her head, pity in her eyes. “I’m sorry Clarke. Even one vampire left alive is a danger to us all. You’ll thank me for this one day.”

She doesn’t allow Clarke a response before she’s turning on her heel and marching purposefully from the room. Clarke doesn’t bother calling out to her. She knows Anya’s mind is made up. She hears the front door slam, and she stands there helplessly, tears in her eyes, regret making her chest ache.

She swallows down her self-pity, and focuses. Despair doesn’t become her, and she’s never been one to sit back and let things happen.

Anya assumes Bellamy is with the other vampires, thankfully. He’ll have time to get out of town before the raid on the display home. But the question is, will he feel the obligation to warn the others? He still has that bond with Echo, and Clarke has the feeling he won’t be able to stand idly by and let her be killed, no matter how awful she is to him. It’s possible, even, that he thinks he deserves it. To be controlled and abused by his maker for the foreseeable forever.

So Clarke can’t warn Bellamy, because if he warns his pack, Clarke’s friends are as good as dead. But she can’t do _nothing_ because otherwise Anya will end up killing Bellamy too, and as much as Clarke knows her mentor’s heart is in the right place, she also knows Anya is completely wrong about Bellamy.

However, Anya was right about one thing. There really is only one thing to be done when it comes to dealing with vampires. Clarke is ashamed she didn’t consider it sooner—it was always her goal from the start, after all. There’s one simple solution to freeing Bellamy and keeping him alive. Kill Echo. It’s back to Plan A.

-

Bellamy is awake when Clarke returns to the guest room, sitting up on the edge of the bed, watching her, waiting for the bad news.

“That was Anya,” Clarke says. “She saw the bite marks. She wants to kill you.”

“Bit overprotective.”

“It’s not funny,” Clarke huffs.

He tilts his head, reaching out his arm. She takes his hand and he tugs her close, so she’s standing between his legs.

“I can handle myself,” he promises.

Clarke chews her lip. “Bellamy…” she starts, hesitant. “The bond between you and your maker. How strong is it really?”

“Baby, are you jealous again?”

“It’s not that,” Clarke says. “What would happen… if she died?”

He considers. “Well—I think it would hurt. I’d definitely feel it. But only for a moment, just to let me know the bond was broken.”

“You never thought about killing her? So you could be free?”

He shakes his head. “That I can’t do. The bond prevents that. In most circumstances, at least. There are rumours that it’s been done before. But it would have to take a great strength of will. Be driven by something entirely more powerful than a blood bond.”

Clarke nods. She figured as much. “Okay,” she says. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to kill Echo. She’s going to do it for him. “I’m going out for a while.”

His hand tightens on hers, only slightly, and Clarke slips it from his before he can overpower her. He’s sensed what her intentions are, and Clarke knows he’ll only try to stop her from putting herself in danger. She takes a step back towards the door, opening it, standing in the crack of sunlight it provides.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says. His voice is quiet, yet anything but gentle. “What are you doing?”

“There’s only one way to end this.”

She darts out into the hallway, before he can lunge for her. She takes the calculated risk that he won’t endanger his own life, not yet, not while he thinks there’s another way. The self-preservation isn’t for his own sake, she knows that, but hers. He knows what it would do to her if he died again.

“Clarke!” he bellows, as Clarke ducks into her own room again. “Clarke! Do not do this. It’s too dangerous! You’ll get yourself killed!”

He’s yelling at her as she rifles through her closet, but she tunes out his threats and pleas. She’s almost insulted he doesn’t think she can handle herself. Doesn’t he know she’s been doing this for five years now?

She foregoes the leather jacket and fingerless gloves tonight, dressing in simple black leggings, sneakers and a tank top. She arms herself with two wooden stakes from her collection, and a third tucked into the waistband of her leggings. They’ll do the job, but she really does miss her dagger and sword.

Lastly, she ties her hair into a high ponytail. Equipped and ready, she sets herself on course for her mission.

“I love you!” she calls as she passes the spare room.

“Clarke!” he yells desperately. She continues to ignore him, running down the stairs and out of the house, the low afternoon sun at her back as she heads in the direction of the vampires’ lair.

It’s a twenty-minute walk to the development lot, and the sun has almost completely set by the time Clarke arrives outside the display home. Despite the eerie feeling that she’s repeating her mistakes, Clarke assures herself that this isn’t the same as last time. Last time she didn’t know what she was up against. This time, she knows exactly how many vampires are there, and how strong they are. She has the element of surprise, and the energy of pure rage on her side. She’s finally going to get that vengeance she’s been craving.

She’s quiet as she swings open the front door. It’s dark inside, apart from soft sunset glow that bathes the entryway now that the door is open. Clarke takes a tentative step inside, stakes ready, on high alert for any movement or sound.

She’s surprised that the display home seems to still be fully furnished, though it’s all covered in layer upon layer of dust.

Clarke trails her fingers along a console table in the hallway, a vase of dead flowers sitting on top of it. She leaves the door open behind her. At least they can’t sneak up from that direction while the sun is still out.

Their coffins would have burned in the fire at their last hideout, and the display home doesn’t appear to have a basement. So, Clarke deduces they’re probably residing in the bedrooms—especially if, like the rest of the house, they’re still furnished. As she learned from Bellamy, even a vampire likes a comfortable bed.

Still, she does a quick sweep of the ground level, checking off the darkened kitchen, the living room, the downstairs bathroom and the laundry.

When she finishes her loop and returns to the entry way, the sun has almost completely set. She’s wasted too much time, she won’t have the advantage much longer. They’ll wake up and smell the sweet scent of her blood, immediately alerting them to her presence.

She ascends the stairs, taking extreme caution not to cause a creak or a rustle. She reaches a closed door at the top of the staircase, which she can only assume to be bedroom one. She holds her stake ready, and turns the handle, swinging the door open. Empty. She exhales, realising she’d forgotten to breathe for a few moments there. Silver chains hang from the bedposts, and Clarke realises it must have been where Bellamy was chained last night.

She makes her way to the next door, on the other side of the hallway. She’s not too discouraged by the lack of vampires in the first bedroom. It’s a four-bedroom house, and there are only three vampires here. One of them had to be empty.

She pushes open the door, ready to lunge. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark enough that she can see a figure huddled on the bed. Not a vampire—a girl, tied up, gag in her mouth, her clothes ripped and bloody.

With an agonising pang, Clarke realises she recognises her—it’s Delilah. They haven’t killed her yet.

Clarke hurries to the bed, dropping her guard completely. Delilah is half unconscious, groaning as she turns her head to try and look at Clarke. Blood drips from the puncture wounds on the girl’s neck, her wrists, ankles, thighs.

Clarke doesn’t know if she wants to vomit or cry. She drops to her knees and pulls the gag from Delilah’s mouth, then starts hastily pulling at the ropes tied around her forearms.

“I’m going to get you out of here, okay?” Clarke whispers.

“Clarke?” Delilah murmurs groggily.

“It’s me,” she affirms. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

Delilah can’t seem to manage more words than that, and she just lies there, watching Clarke untie her through half-lidded eyes. Clarke is so focused on rescuing Delilah, she forgets all about her previous mission. Her compassion, unfortunately, is her undoing.

She has no warning before she’s ripped away from Delilah’s side and thrown to the other side of the room, splayed on the floor, winded. She lies there on the floor, shock paralysing her. Echo advances on her, smiling wickedly.

“Finally,” she drawls. “I’ve been so bored lately, and the toy I most wanted has delivered itself right to my feet.”

Clarke’s eyes dart to her stakes, abandoned beside the bed, then to the door, awaiting the arrival of Echo’s henchmen. Echo’s grin grows wider.

“Oh, you’re going to make it fun,” she says. “Don’t worry, Murphy and Emori aren’t coming. They know you’re mine. They’re guarding the door in case a certain husband of yours decides he wants to play the hero. He really should’ve learned by now that he’s nothing but the villain.”

While Echo is giving her cute little speech, Clarke is reaching into her leggings, curling her fist around her last stake. She’s not going down without a fight.

In a split second, Echo is on top of her, and Clarke whips out the stake. But Echo is expecting it, and she grabs Clarke’s wrist, her vampire strength making Clarke’s own muscles useless. Despair bubbles up in her throat as Echo wrenches the stake from Clarke’s grip and tosses it out of the room, into the hallway.

“Aw, you let him bite you,” Echo sings. “How cute.”

She leans in to Clarke’s neck and Clarke’s skin prickles with disgust. She struggles in Echo’s clutches, but it’s no use.

“You are going to die slowly,” Echo whispers, and her playful bravado is gone, replaced with nothing but murderous malice. “And you will get no venom from me. I want you to feel every second of this, and want you to suffer, and I want you to die knowing Bellamy is mine.”

Funny, that’s exactly what Clarke had planned for Echo. Except it’s not funny at all, because Clarke can’t see a way out of this one. She’s not strong enough to fight off a vampire, and she’s out of weapons. Her silver bracelet is at home in her jewellery box. Anya and the others aren’t coming to save her this time, they don’t even know she’s here, and Delilah is too out of it to be any help.

Still, Clarke thrashes as Echo sinks her fangs into Clarke’s neck, maybe hoping she’ll be thrown off balance enough to give Clarke a small advantage. But Echo is obviously used to unwilling prey, and Clarke’s struggling is of no consequence to her.

Unlike Bellamy’s smooth, clean bites, Echo’s fangs are ruthless, ripping at Clarke’s neck, tearing away a huge chunk of flesh. Clarke gives a strangled cry of pain. Echo ignores her, sucking at her neck hungrily.

There’s nothing erotic about this. Echo is bloodthirsty and unrelenting, and her only goal is to hurt Clarke as much as possible. She claws at Clarke’s skin, twists her arms so far back Clarke feels they might break. There’s no venom to mask the pain, or to give Clarke that sweet, delirious feeling. She’s glad of it—she doesn’t want to slip passively to her grave. She wants to fight for every last breath.

Tears stream down her face now, as Echo slashes Clarke’s wrists with her fangs, sinks them into the hollow of Clarke’s neck, and drags them down, leaving long gashes down her chest. Blood pours from the wounds on her neck, from her wrists, into the carpet beneath her. So much more blood than Bellamy ever took from her.

She’s stopped fighting now, her body too mangled, her head dizzy. She’s gasping for breath, each one rasping and difficult. She’s going to die, she knows she’s going to die. There’s no one coming for her, and anyway, her injuries are too severe to come back from now. She’s lost too much blood, she knows that.

All her dreams of spending eternity with Bellamy turn to ash. It’s a cruel twist of fate that she’d meet her end just when she’d started wanting to live again.

Through watery, blurry eyes, Clarke sees Echo grinning down at her, blood all over her face.

“I win,” she sneers. She gives a surprised grunt then, and her expression freezes in a vignette of shock. And then, her body disintegrates, and as the bloody remains of Echo spill all over Clarke, she sees Bellamy standing there, holding a stake.

He’s at her side in an instant, cradling her head in his arms.

“Clarke,” he moans, anguished. “Clarke, Clarke, stay with me.”

Clarke shuts her eyes, unable to keep them open any longer. She can’t fight anymore, it’s over, it’s over.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks. “I love you.”

“No!” Bellamy sobs. “You’re not leaving me. Here. Drink.”

He pushes her mouth open with his fingers, and something wet and warm trickles into Clarke’s mouth. It rolls over her tongue and down her throat, making her choke and cough.

“You have to swallow, baby,” Bellamy says, and somehow Clarke obeys. His fingers leave her mouth, and then he’s pressing his lips against hers, stroking her face. She can feel his tears drip onto her cheeks. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, his voice shaking.

It’s not, but Clarke can’t speak anymore. She thinks how it’s nice that at least she gets to die in his arms, and that he’s free of Echo.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you, I love you.”

And that’s the last thing Clarke hears before she dies.

-

She’s not dead. At least, she doesn’t think she is. She doesn’t feel dead. In fact, she feels _invigorated_. She had the urge to run, feel the wind in her hair.

Except she appears to be trapped in some kind of wooden box. Her chest tightens as she starts to panic. It’s a coffin, she realises—they’ve buried her alive.

Frantic, she starts banging on the lid of the coffin above her.

“Help!” she cries. “Help, I’m not dead.”

The coffin opens, and Bellamy stares down at her. Behind him, stars twinkle between the treetops.

“That’s not strictly true,” he says.

Clarke blinks up at him, uncomprehending for a moment. She takes in the six-foot hole they’re in, the lack of pain she feels, the quiet in her chest. And then, a ravishing hunger that growls in her belly, made stronger by a sweet, delicious scent coming from somewhere nearby. She’s free from blood and scars, dressed in a pretty, modest, peach dress. Someone had dressed her for her own funeral.

“You turned me,” she realises, remember the way he’d dripped what must have been his own blood into her mouth as she died.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He holds out a hand and helps her to her feet. She’s a little unsteady at first, stumbling into his chest. He holds her close. “You were dying. I couldn’t think of any other way to save you. Are you mad?”

She shakes her head. “This is what I wanted, remember?”

He kisses her again, but Clarke is distracted by her grumbling stomach, and the smell of what she’s now aware of as human blood. There are other people nearby. All of her senses are heightened and not only can she smell them, but she can hear their quiet breathing, the racing of their hearts.

“Who’s here?” she asks. She’s struck with a vision of herself flying out of the grave, draining the unsuspecting human of their blood. Bellamy’s arms tighten around her, as if he can sense her bloodlust and wants to keep her from doing something she’ll regret.

“Anya, Monty, and Jasper,” he says.

“They know?”

He nods. “They helped me. I went to them as soon as it got dark, and they took on Murphy and Emori while I found you.”

“Murphy, Emori, Echo…they’re all dead now?”

“Yes.”

“And Delilah?”

“In the hospital. She’s going to be okay.”

Clarke breathe a sigh of relief. “Bellamy,” she whines. “I’m so hungry.”

He laughs. “Come on,” he says. He takes her hand, and Clarke notices with a rush of pleasure that he’s wearing his wedding ring again. He helps her out of the grave, and Anya, Monty, and Jasper stand huddled nearby. “Jasper has kindly volunteered to be your first.”

Clarke makes eye contact with Anya as Jasper steps forward. He seems eager almost. Anya scowls. She’s clearly not totally on board with this whole thing.

“I’ve kind of secretly always wanted to know what it’s like to be bitten,” Jasper confesses.

“Take it too far, and I _will_ stake you,” Anya threatens. Clarke nods. But she’s just happy Anya’s there at all, that she came to her rescue, that she’s allowing her to live as a vampire, despite her own bad experiences.

Jasper offers his wrist and Clarke takes it. She bares her fangs and pierces his skin, and he winces slightly, but doesn’t complain more than that. Some intrinsic part of her knows how to release the venom and she imbues a little of it into his bloodstream to dull the pain as she drinks down his blood, filling her belly.

Somehow, Clarke had kind of thought that it wouldn’t taste like blood. Maybe it would taste like roast beef or maybe a bloody mary. But it still tastes like blood. It’s just that now she _likes_ the taste of blood.

“What’s it like?” Monty asks.

Jasper giggles. “I feel kind of high. And horny.”

Bellamy grabs Clarke around the waist and gently pulls her away. “Okay,” he says. “Enough. He’s had as much as he can handle.”

“You just don’t like that I made him horny,” Clarke pouts. But she can see from looking at Jasper that he’s already dazed and woozy, and besides her hunger has been sated enough for now.

“Thank you,” Clarke says. To Jasper. To Anya, and Monty. Monty surges forward and pulls her into a tight hug.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” he says. “Even if you’re a vampire.” Eventually he pulls away, and the three of them depart, Anya giving Clarke a nod of mutual respect as she goes. Perhaps they’ll never truly be friends again, but this is as much as Clarke can hope for.

They leave then, and Clarke and Bellamy stand alone in the graveyard.

“Who came to my funeral?” Clarke jokes, glancing at her headstone. Fresh flowers cover most of it.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, tilting his head, exasperated. “It’s okay if you’re sad, you know. Your mom thinks you’re dead. You’ll never see her again.”

“We weren’t that close anyway.”

“You’re really not mad? Upset?”

“I told you,” she says, “I wanted it.”

“I didn’t think you _really_ wanted it,” he says. “Immortality. An eternity of darkness.”

“An eternity with _you_ ,” she says. She kisses him. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He laughs. “What a terrible hardship.”

She pulls him into a deep, tender kiss, that lasts for minutes, or maybe centuries. It doesn’t matter, because they have eternity.


End file.
